I am not nothing. I know this. I am an entity, an organism, I am existing but I am cold. I am fooled and flawed and proof of failure. I am degraded and diminished - no, not diminished in the beauty of music. Like your cliffs papa, like your cliffs.
I am so tired, oh I wish for sleep. I'm just so tired. But I am selfish, so selfish.
I miss the air and the smell, the certainty and belief. I miss existence! Such a wonderful place it is, I see it now. Listen: ... - that is you! Papa, that is you! That is your voice. It's quiet. So awfully quiet, and in this quiet, we are brought there.
The wind swims through me.
Is this my own desperate loneliness? My desperate loneliness making me guilty of this awful caress. There is no solace in this, but there is honesty. It touches every part of me. The cotton I've always worn, has never been a heavy mask.
The dominant dance of an unseen entity. Violated. Violated. I've lost.
My mother would not approve; cotton is not to her taste, not at all. She prefers synthetics, still, despite her insistence and perseverance I will always maintain my impenitent belief that cotton is far more soft.
Yet afar the wind, there is something more. To claim, another. To claim. Then, there is the ocean.
I don't believe the ocean ends, it is unremitting.
Beyond this is more water and more. So we may die trying to find an end. A futile endeavor to find that which does not exist. It is to follow an atheist in his search for God.
But this, the ocean, it is much greater than comprehension, and this, the feeling of being near invisible yet a part of something so grand is unrivaled. It is life giving and it is pain but mostly, it is comfort. It provides a means for execution. It's submission of a different sort. Purely, defiantly an answer, penance, punishment and a sweet and tender joy.
How foolish you are to think so plainly, how foolish.
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