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Expressionism – 1-10-14


The ocean is as fluid as I wish to be. Waves bringing in the days warmth. They come crashing quicker with the wind, but nothing moves them quite like the boats. Artificially created nature, those waves. Still just as beautiful as anything Mother Nature would have provided.
These oceanic interruptions are necessary. Waiting for something to wash ashore. Treasure. Seaweed. Black-Tar heroin. A human body. Who fucking knows. The sea contains darker mysteries than most of the women I’ve met. Not sure how deep either can go. Not sure which scares me more. Women have skeletons in their closets just like the sea has bones on the ocean-floor; Sandy, water-logged bones. Bones from pirates, vigilantes, ship-wrecked captains, even the poor unfortunate folks who were trying to make a break to the land of the free. They’d be heartbroken when they’d learned what our freedom here really meant.
Best freedom for them, and probably most of us, is that watery grave. 30,000 feet below the surface, they’ll find a sense of peace. They’ll always feel fluid. Fluid like the ocean. Fluid as I wish to be.

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