shell

I live deficient when I should be living defiant. Instead of being definite, I am stuck in denial. Are you admiring my alliteration yet? Would it help if I sold seashells by the seashore?

And now I want to talk about drought. I want to write a screenplay for a new wave flick dealing with drought and cigarettes. I want to extrapolate your bones. No, wait. Wrong word. I want to excavate your bones. Maybe later I can extend the application of this method, but for now I want to systematically find you. The bones being bare share with me what you kept protected lest I find out you were a fraud. I was a fraud, too. A fake at best. We can't do anything about this anymore, honey, except polish our masks and caskets.

And we can hold the seashell we sold at the seashore up to our ears and hear whatever we failed to hear when we were swimming. And now we sink. And now we grasp onto our breath like it's the world's most prized possession. I want to encapsulate you. I want to find some way for you to insulate me from the inside out.

We are nothing but shells.