The sky was charcoal, smeared gray and black, and that bumpiness made the waves more assertive in stature. The midday whistles that relayed order between beacons of undersold decency had slumped aside for the emergence of a low rumbling blockade that slapped me from all angles, as if I was aligned with the uprising from the stolen shore. My entire form was a single sheet of wet cardboard. It was night and it was certain…no one else felt the need to grieve. Not even an assumptive pair of eyes, that I forced myself to disbelieve. For arguments sake, even if something or someone had wanted to be present, there was nothing from me that could possibly be worth studying. It took more than flesh and bone to enhance another’s narrative. Sure, I was educated, but limited with actual qualifications that made my lines everlasting or my looks desirable. And yet, when that notion became only a soft crackle, like a vinyl record that had run out of words and melodies to entertain, I missed them as brothers who had gotten married, had their kids and happily moved their time zones far away. I played that thought back again, and again, found that internal patterns and constraints were no longer linear or brave. I would be dry soon, even if the tide was rising. The best tracks were merely hidden, like the needle found, boredom was an uneven trade.