first having read the book of myths, i am now a head buried in the shoreline, but soon the tide will come and i will drown and be lost. i have never been anything other than a head in the sand, bobbing about like sea cabbage. i have thought often of paris, and what it would mean to be a turnip on a steam engine in calais.

i had nothing to do with it. i was not here. i was under the bed when the doorbell rang, and so i whipped the dog into a frenzy and crashed through the front door, riding him like a mule, into the bright and blazing fields of cotton.

my dolphin, you only guide me by surprise, never when i ask for it, when i'm ready for it, when i feel i'm in a place for your bottlenose and boundless lung. i can't hold my breath as long as you can, and yet you always insist on taking me so far out to sea.

it was taken some time ago. but i would've given it freely up until a year ago, when i became quite sore at its being gone and so decided, were i ever to have it in my possession again, i would not part with it, no matter how little i used it or thought of it, sitting there in that box, shut and left there so long ago.

there's nothing i can't find under there, i found a lock of your old hair, a page from my mother's copy of the 1984 yellow pages, the tie jimmy hoffa would've worn the day after he was killed, thousands upon thousands of original fabergé eggs, some secrets you'd thought to keep from me, some fears i never knew i had.

the art of losing isn't hard to master, but it takes some practice. but practice isn't hard. its just long. the art of losing takes a long time to master, but it comes quite easy after a glass of milk and two aspirin. if you've never lost something artfully, you'll know why it takes such a long time to master. mastery is what we all want.