I don't need to taste the salt to know it is bitter. Restless rings on emaciated fingers, jungle foliage in increasing shapes of doing.
What am I doing?
Thousands of words are written on every single day. Millions of sentences spoken in a million different ways. Still nothing sticks like glue to the fabrication of supposing.
I am one dot on a blank piece of paper, one mark in a jangled box of wasted sand.
Underneath my feet lies the grovelling ground. Above my head the lives the growling sky. Between the two, that is where I surround myself with the gauze of mischief and malignancy.
I do stand, but only roughly.
Swaying branches open like falling stars and so I keep the green light blinking. One day, maybe even tomorrow, I can taste the salt and comment on how sweet it has become.