Sep 19 2003
Viola (i)
A couple of days ago we wandered down to the stony beach, a camera in my hand and a worn towel in his. I never watch him swim because it makes my stomach feel funny - the thought of a body just suspended between the sky and the depths of the bed, encased in this transparent liquid jelly. He shouts things periodically and I smile, watch his head dunk under and his arms wailing, as he swims against the current. I spend my time fishing for textures ’cause it’s what I love best. The fragility of a seagull’s feather, or the beautiful colours of a muscle shell. I creep along the stones as if I’m ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey, macro in hand and an open eye for the small things in life. I listen to the susserative whispers of the water rushing up the shore, and I know that soon, this will all be mine.
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