Balloons as a base

The feast of sensation. The many curves and evidences. Everywhere is evidence of some action no more empowered, or less, than any other. All things dissolve into a stasis of motion. Shuffling, impermanent, heaped onto all the rest to form this world.

The great genesis of now tossed on the pile of all time. No important past. No more to the future than what the moment demands. Curves and lines and movement causing nothing, affecting nothing and yet birthing everything. Abstractions meet and make each other's acquaintance.

All magic is possible, if reins of potential can be grasped and held long enough to break bread with ambivalence. A child granted tantrums rages with all the heart to become.

There are edges everywhere, between the grains of sand muscled by wind and water, between the living soon to die and the dead forgetting life. There are the waves hardening dunes, the vast cup of sand holding back with the most forgivable obstructions. Everything is easy. Everything is violated by everything else. Everything forgives and rises again.

Orange men travel up the beach towards me. Men again. What of this? I feel my solitariness. I am alone. They carry their boomsticks and I have none. I should be a bird on the wind. I should bury myself in the dune’s thigh. I should drown in the water to hide my shame.

They walk the beach. They keep walking, growing larger. Their heavy boots won’t stop.