Walking slowly – ankles aching – you tend to see the small things on the shore.

Each shell a death – they delight and enchant. I can’t quite wrap my mind around that.

Is it something to do with mortality –
the big picture –

what we leave behind, un(in)tended?

In the right light it’s all beautiful.

(Sounds like I’m lit; sadly not.)

I imagine a beach scattered with human bones – bleached, clean, serene. Would that be horribly beautiful or just horrible? Am I a psychopath? 

Nahhh. I just see a pretty shell on the shore.


I find a baby’s ear, the most prized shell of my childhood on a beach a thousand miles away, a thousand years distant.

And think: who thought to call it that?


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Not A Psychopath

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