Such are the pitiless waves of time, such the deleterious effects of passing, indifferent tempests.
Washed upon ever further shores, among our swamped possessions and general wreckage. A chance to remember that the lighter we fall into the water the better we float, and perhaps more likely to glimpse another dawn, over the sea, cold, shivering, exhausted, but alive.
A long time, in which opening your mouth meant only filling it with salty water, but here you are, coughing, retching, spitting it out… another storm survived. Tomorrow a search along the beach may reveal what else has made it through the squall.
