Little Ricky attempts to fit the slice in reverse.

You have been here. The you obviously is just me for who reads this? Besides myself? A pulverant on the suds of the surfactant. Once you were a little one struggling to get everything in your mouth, your toroid’s center. The thrust of life. Such zest!

Perhaps pulverantilist’s are actually surfactants saponifying that micro layer of fat which could fictionally, fractionally represent the infinite slices of being-in-the-world. A humble proposition my friend. As mad a proposition as the thought of self dialogue between the mind, the body, the soul, thumos et alibi.

You’ve run screaming on the beach in ecstasy from the cold waves, the surf and salt in your mouth. Your skin salt encrusted gazing onto the limitless horizon of the water. A small smile forms on your face like Roman above.

Flush with exhaustion from the ocean

I told my friend Cory I was done writing and yet here it is dancing with a canon T-70 and a zoom lens. Shall I fight the impulse? A mere quaint idea of dialogue? My friend Cory says I like vitriol. He speaks truth. A thousand dreams and thoughts swirl in the clouds and seafoam. An outboard marine engine chugs on a fishing boat heard from the beach with the rolling waves. Drunk on the solar rays.

I want to die and live all at once in a shack beside a summer beach.


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