His tiny lungs greedily swallowed up as much oxygen as his wiry frame could handle before disappearing under the froth and steam of the mighty ocean that was bearing down on the toes of sleepless shoreline. His legs struggled to maintain a foothold as spent seashells pricked at his toes like miniature soldiers with bayonets and fine sand burned coldly at his heels. He found a steady rhythm with the gaping sway, opening his eyes now to ruminate on the world under his feet, a world stolen by water.
A clench of seaweed danced back and forth like a milksop scarecrow, its roots tethered to a foreign planet that lived a million miles beneath every lonesome foot of separation with the floor of a deep, blue sky. Stones the color of vermillion and smoke, eburnean, peat and umber pocked the roam of invisible footprints whose songs were forged in the calamity of romance and death.
He lay his eyes upon the shimmering platinum sky above and wished never to return to the world of sound, preferring the embrace of silence instead. He prayed that Jules Verne’s restless imagination might write him onto a page of fiction from which he could breathe in this foreign language until the sun lost its way. And that the sea might fetch his mortal bones and remand him to the mighty Gods of the deep. And that his soul might venture like a wild butterfly, feasting sweetly on the mysteries while hurtling through all those less traveled places made famous by rock star poets.
To nowhere and to everything. He prayed.