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Random Note

We meddle in all things and seem to be disappointed at every turn. All objects touched with our hands are fleeting and fading. Beach rolled green glass from sorrowful bottles and fisherman buoys are smooth chapters with rough tales of sunny days and crushing blows with cobble stones. Standing on the shore we smell these salty sweet stories playfully swirling in summer winds. But all is memory now. Seasons and sights buried in pages already written. So we continue to write. Trying to forget. Furiously scribbling new images and tastes. Eating pages with tears and blood, consuming our lives. Desperately trying to forget. Move on. Be a better man or woman or what-have-you. Entries of you are obscure encyclopedic passages full of holes and incompletes – novels could have been written – that's what I whispered, skipping gray stones off a milky green glacier ocean. It will dreamily subside, flipping drunkenly to sandy floors, leaving Dungeness crab and white jittery shrimp philosophizing about God's boulders and her scorn for exoskeletons. I asked a bearded Sitka Spruce what he thought of you. He just hummed with the coming sun. I asked a field of Forget-me-nots who you really were – said they couldn't recall. Fireweed blooms giggled at my requests to speak their minds about your soul and bust into a flight of fluffy cotton puffs. All I have are these passages.

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