The ocean is a whisper gone mad.

Each of us hears our own voice, but ignores it. The saccharine sussuruss of the moron ocean enthralled us.

What if the privacy we are obsessed with is a lie? What if the earth is laying all our mutter, our vitriol in the drivers seat, our dark glance across a crowded market down in dry folds of its strata for later review?

What if judgement day is Wednesday at 1:46 pm?

Part the weeds beyond the amazon boxes, peek out from behind the piles milk cartons filled with your face. Join the raccoons peering out through the broken television.

Standing by the ficus with the shears in my hand is not as important as the grey sky kissing my forehead with mist.