These sentences, driftwood words washed-up on an unpopular beach of language. Readers need to read between the strands of seaweed to collect the meaning then carry it back up the beach in their buckets of a brain; or they can just stare into the oil-slicked rock pools like a carbuncle encrusted Narcissus; or perhaps they might even skim rune-stamped pebbles back at me across the shallows? But nobody lingers long enough on this bleak shoreline. It isn't Dover Beach with its picturesque metaphors nestling in sandy dunes. No, alas, the surfing here is terrible and so is the sunbathing. At least the parking is free, I suppose.
The tide is coming in, or maybe it's going out, hard to tell from my standpoint on the crumbling bluffs. Nevertheless, here is the first washed-up driftwood of 2024: a short, bleached-brown stick of tempest-tossed words. It's not, to be sure, the kind of elegantly curvaceous, antler-like artifact worthy of exhibition on a seaside cottage mantelpiece next to the scrimshaw whalebone, but merely the whim of an ocean that doesn't know what to do with itself.
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