The Waves

that is, the irregular wave breaks into parts, discontinuous liquid mass of uneven foam. I have these tiny scars on my hands, but no trouble hearing the cosmos. I was just looking at the sky, the lack of a comet. I cut off another piece of horizon, erecting conceptual walls like shields, something to help with the deficiencies, I thought, a rough plan of mental protection. this should be colored, pleasant resorts containing the hits, but I don't read this world clearly, the tiny letters are shuffled around the corners, they whisper among themselves, disperse, regroup. so what I don't understand attacks me in phalanges, misshapen group with a thousand edges small deaths to mount.