I have lost the wind. The sail of writing is down. It is in the middle of nowhere. It is a matter of time its structure rots. That will be when the shark comes around. What soul you have left, will be left wandering without a body - down to the last white bone. Then what? A resurrection? Soul may be too nice a word - more like empty air. By then, there won't be images, symbolism, of which words are the masters.
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