And being is heavy, thick like a plank or log underwater; sunken ships on the ocean deep.

And we are all every one of us always again underwater hidden and perfect in the perfect stillness, and the separateness between us feels more substantial than just air.

The chill in the bones during true solitude confirms the current of everything that passes in front of us; deep water flows, now and now and now again.

And why should they haunt us, those apparitions lost to time and chance;
the characters float away from our personal margins, unreal—except as an echo of motion within the water,
and in the end, we do not end with our own end, nor with an end comprehensible in time.

Because, to the degree that we are each blessed, if still mortal, we can only know the end to our story, while
the full tapestry remains submerged to time, mysterious to all but those too dead to know, and mystery—like the weight of the ocean—is heavy, thick…

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