Sunday, August 22, 2004

Just east of Antillia -

There was something about the way things ended last night that reminded me of how I've crept out of way to many backdoors in my short lifetime. Always trying to get away. Always trying to escape unnoticed. But how does one escape from a boat? How does one escape when you're out at sea?

We laid out on the deck for what seemed like hours, watching the Northern Lights trip across the sky, a chimerical curtain of phantom green fluttering, crackling, whispering.

The sound that a smile makes when it's wrapped in plastic and stolen from a ghost.

I must have said these words out loud, allowing them to slip out of my mouth, up her forearm, and into her ears. No, in fact, I know for certain they took this very route because I felt the tiny hairs on her arms stand on end as each word passed.

Where do words go when they're spoken, when they're brought into creation? Do they age and ultimately die like everything else?

She must have said these words out loud, for I felt them infiltrate my ear, stealing past the pinna, slipping down the canal, and rap, rap, rapping on the drum, causing my hammer, anvil, and stirrup to sit up and take notice. The cochlea then passed these vibrations along to my brain which, in turn, decoded the message, and passed the communiqué onto me.

But I didn't have an answer, so instead feigned sleep.

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