Scientifically speaking, the ghosts of albatrosses congregate in the cool, moist shadows of abandoned convention warehouses after the predawn mist whose blurred, gray facades color form intertwined armadas of umbilical death – and this is why urban footfalls echo louder in saltwater fog.
Still, I’d rather absorb their insults and mockery like some dysfunctional sponge as I pass on my way down to the slippery array of posted chains waiting in Aquatic Park then spend another twitching, sleepless sunrise smelling her blonde honey fragrance on flannel sheets of embrace she will never share with me. Alone, beneath those sheets, I’m the same as these wretched wraiths. But they won’t follow me the way her essence does.
On these unforgiving feral fairways, stillness rules the odd humidity. Hooks and slices are devastating. The way of the slipped disc is lost. That is the point. Silence is healing.
You, my friend, are a genius. Thank you for sharing your work.