Kafka: “I need solitude for my writing; not 'like a hermit' - that wouldn't be enough - but...”

His smile opened. I could see his upper and lower teeth completely. It was revolting and tragic, decay traced over that sweetness of his spirit which remained a glowing light, contracted, ancient, perhaps eternal. His diminished flesh seemed only a thin and threadbare fabric, thrown over the light to demarcate its shape. Now the seams glowed, the small light shown through the threading. It made my bones ache.

Took a film photo of a soggy side-road and a woman came and warned me I’d get my throat cut for that camera. It felt good to talk to somebody.

They were in the water, there in the warm seawater, blind and spineless, mindlessly bobbing with the rest of us, glass noodle tentacles petting shoulders and ears, raising little rashes like those of stinging nettles. It was the jellies that played social catalyst this day in this cove, where tourists squinted, obscuring the sight of the swimsuit confettied beach so to create a sense of solitude. Nothing pushes people apart like having to share something. Nothing brings people together like a mutual enemy.

Short-shorts, piped mid-high socks, indoor soccer shoes and a ponytail. Parading her legs down every street twice. Faux déjà vu. Trying to walk her way into all our dreams. Or maybe she just forgot her shin-guards. That was a completed thought! I’m clawing my way out!