Ah, Manuel

Beneath a sickly, dusky moon, the white sand flows. The fractal clouds were named forgotten in oblivion long ago. The tides and waves cannot control what they say.

The sand is caressed by the waves, exactly as a lover would do. It throws back the chalky spinal column of crushed shells that it had clasped.

A lonely palm with blistering bark leans toward the surf. The trembling fronds, with their salty taste a gift of the sea, and the Adirondack chairs with their rusting paint and the crystallized salt that comes from the sea.

A crust of salt formed around two horizontal recliners in the Adirondack style over the passage of time. The shadows cast by the leaves became larger and more misshapen. The armchair presents a cracked design and is completely ugly to look at, like something you would regret after a 3 AM conversation.

The discussion takes place somewhere between the two armrests. This love may be wrong if it operates in contact with the actual truth. Nevertheless, fear drove us to flee.

The ripples were small and sweet on the beach. The vibrant ecology exists even as I speak. The cells seemed to be waiting there, in pain, as if they were just crises waiting to happen.

The shape of this silence matches closely with the shape of the shore. I have limited summer vacations now due to a lack of genuine interest and participation in social circles and a flood of other issues that have to do with the soul—perhaps even permanent isolation, but not in madness.