"The long unmeasured pulse of time moves ever[y thing]."
Half a year looms past, revolves, an ending turn. There is a terror and eventually a fatigued comfort in the days causelessly passing faster and faster.
Like a jagged stone worn smooth by sand and wave.
["Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery."]
Many by way of horror come to crumble in this sand.
A few black rocks still jut half-drowned above the writhing ocean surface,
But for how long I can discern that they are there
I do not know,
in the dying light the ocean grows - the sound of it, the unformed shape
A kind of everything.
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