the days of night, the september country, the forgotten memory, the ironic state. the mental catastrophe of variations in inertia. spring heeled mission, the limehouse captain, captain tripper, the cockney reject, the prodigal sun.
walking along the beach with my friend who is wrapped in salvation i look out at the water, still and gentle, calmness tranquility waves caress my skin like the warm kisses after sex with an ocean nymph.
the dying winter sunlight on the cusp of spring, crisp surface tension stretches out to the horizon, in the distance a shoreline north. 
we have walked a long way, up the strange place they call skillion, to the lookout where the wrecks of many ships are detailed in stone. sunken treasure, like all good rewards awaiting discovery.