2012-08-11 - 2:05 p.m.

I'd say I feel like a houseplant, one that hasn't been watered in a long time. I'd say it's like a flood has hit my much hardened soil and water is pouring out the bottom before it can penetrate my roots. So you do what you must: repeat the process slowly and deliberately, almost ritually, until finally you've reached the heart of things and it's like coming to an understanding for the first time in a long time, remembering a thing once forgotten.

I'd say this but it isn't entirely true, at least in terms of magnitude. Talking of houseplants feels silly and small-minded when I want to talk about the beach, about the tide coming in one wave after another. The push is steady and unrelenting like the music you chose. I can feel the ocean pouring into every crevice, water trickling between sand particles and filling up the tide pools. Sand that's been touched by the tide over and over again (and again I think of your mix and my neck) is easier to walk on. It's easier to know where to be.

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