Sand and Salt Spray

Is it a waste of time, all this tinkering, arranging, and hopeful word wrangling? Some say redemption from it is possible. Others say the way is wordless, beyond these tiny, self-generating miracles of thought and sound. Others say they are more reality than reality, whatever that is. You can't know a thing without them they say. Power they say. The raw material of self they say. We are made of water and words and sand and wind-borne salt spray. They are a bridge across the roiling seas of chaos they say, the story that takes you to the other side. I say they are both particle and wave, ephemeral, all that remains when the body is long gone. They are what we leave for those who follow, folly though they might be.