Satie and surf. It's time to return to the water.
In my less than ritualistic life it's nice not to think about anything but the water. Yet as soothing it's surface tension seems, under its veil is just as much activity as under my own. Life, death, scavenger. Feed from the particles that surround us, bleak lights in the dark, sparks of emotion and a generic cooperative spirit. But on the surface the in and out of the waterline ever moving, changing, eroding.
Let's erode it to the bone.
And it's as though our Spring may never come, and when Summer hears of this perhaps She will shy away too? The boats are docked and wrapped, the marinas lifeless as the enveloping grey decays movement, we live suspended in our nuclear winter.
Contrite and obnoxious Winter halts all rebirth cycles-the buds are too shy to raise their sleepy little leaflets to the sky, and the does search for life within their womb.
I search for reassurance in these symbols of isochronality and none exist - retreat to the water, where at least her voice is there lulling the rest of the world onward.
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