What’s the use of beauty in these blackest of hours? Earlier, under the harsh glare of invisible light, you vanished like glass in thin air, and even so you hedge your bets by darting out of sight into the cover of soft grains and precious stones.
But now, you emerge bold and grave. The shore groans with transparent exuberance as a barrage of jointed legs run amuck over sponge and soft coral. You scatter like sprites before the power of a fragile foot. But a hunger, less cruel than coldly curious, for morbid spectacles drives you to claw your back to the sin of the crime. But this time, there is no more tension and you don't even try – just a hint of a sign and the shadow of a clue to a muddle of well-mixed signals.
What can this clumsy body of thought offer to a germ of rare lucidity? We can't even see eye to eye; this pair of simple lenscapes can only dream of capturing the depth of views you enjoy from a lower, but far from lesser, field. Condemned to a life too high from the bottom, I can only imagine the phantoms you perceive in this clear soup of dusty wavelengths. If only you'd hold still and allow me to catch my breath and let my mind snap and shatter before you press the panic button. When can we stop hiding behind tight, thin shells and shed these casual inhibitions to see through our lies and see each other through?
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