It Feels Like Floating.
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A dull ache — laughter.
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Miraculous night, silent night, holy night, holy trinity, as I look up into the star-filled sky, forgive me for I have lied.
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Lied in order to get what I want.
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Made concessions but not amends.
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Making split-second decisions and pretending that that was the plan all along.
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Wanting to seem independent but all actions rely on someone else’s movements.
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Words coded in such a way so as to reflect well on the speaker.
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Words that make you seem smart.
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Imagine a grotto.
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Something revealed at low tides when the water rushes back to the sea.
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Standing in three inches of ice cold water.
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Drips on your shoulder.
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A casual sign.
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A cinematic moment.
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A thin membrane.
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In front of you is the craggy opening, revealing the midnight ocean gleaming under the light of the full moon.
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The stars are in perfect alignment with each other.
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Gleaming.
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Foam and detritus wrap around your ankles.
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Seaweed creeps up your calves.
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Dragonflies buzz, graze past your ear.
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A myriad of sighs from last year.
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Hushed tones.
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The particular articulations of a French pop star singing in English.
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Hidden energy.
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Tidal water, cesspool.
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Crumbling limestone.
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If you licked, it would taste salty.
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Residual particles.
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Encrusted.
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Growths.
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The true cesspool of hum.
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A take — sea caves, twinkling but slow.
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Localized arrhythmia.
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Constellations … something special about the beach.
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Grain after grain after grain.
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A beaded necklace.
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Moments strung together.
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Pale yellow.
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Cornflower blue.
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Peach.
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Lavender.
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Beige.
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Orange.
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Indigo.
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Forest green.
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Red.
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Amber.
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Cerulean.
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Eucalyptus.
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Cedarwood.
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Lichen.
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Algae.
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Something to be said about the way it feels — not real — when drifting (in and out, like tides) like in and out of a fever dream.
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It must feel like how it feels to stop playing a video game.
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Suddenly everything is rendered inconsequential.
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Not relevant anymore.
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But time remains so terrifying to me.
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The thought one day my bones will be exposed to bare dirt.
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My skin should sag and reach the ground.There is no longer a desire to say anything novel.
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There is only the desire to reiterate old cliches, to dwell in tropes, to relish in trite sentiments.
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There is nothing to say because nothing ever happens.
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I vow to abhor world-building in favor of complete self-annihilation.
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