I gather sea salt with lacerated hands and make a nest to sit in. I look into the empty sky and chew on blackthorn bushes and grapevines that have grown around my neck and died over the years. They splinter and crack and fall around my feet as I stand up and walk to the shore. I watch as a million cephalopods emerge from the deep and fill the sea with black ink. The curling dark words are in a language that I can’t understand. Is this a note? Some grandly orchestrated warning? I’m exhausted by the thought of it, so I drop it under my foot like a spent cigarette and walk away. At home, I wipe my bird-like eyes and bravely tuck myself into oblivion with my stinging hands. I lay back and listen to America through my walls. It’s a wonder that I can sleep with all that snoring.

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