Words tend to make the fresh loaf of meaning stale.

The dictionary flaps open and each word reads “arbitrary.”

As such, we are immersed in a sea of chaos, honing in on mere bubbles like an infant would her mother’s nipple.

The waves beat into a foam of momentary information, puns, or serendipity. The sizzle sounds like a wave saying thank you to itself: thank you for creating distinction out of all this lack of direction.

We are distinction. We are clumps of information slapping arbitrary labels on ourselves like gold paint, and gold paint will rub up against gold paint.

Our interactions are varying degrees of lies.

Despite the penalty whistles, I and your I continue.

I am but a series of masks Eternity has chosen to disguise me with.

I appear along endless exceptions.

I throw the ambitious prince’s crown into a lava pit.

I giggle at immortality or infallibility because only a funny wave would seek to dethrone the sea.

Instead I submit to the Reaper’s crown, the crown that transforms every moment into a rose, ever-budding and ever-withering with beauty.

Then every moment is a canvas, dance floor, or musical instrument.

I dance along the most absurdly out of the way path straight into my own coffin. The lid is Eternity’s door in disguise.

Entering, I make the “e” in “end” an “a.”