Stormclouds on a windy morning sky. The seagulls wait patiently for the fishermen's return: the promise of fish-heads and shellfish . Seamus watches the increasing flames on the ocean with his wizened gray gaze. The other -more important- men suspect him of nothing. After all, fishermen have a simple life. Another knave, slave to the jested life of the yuppy, encouraged to rot on the sea and it's capricious code. Whatever life he leads cannot be compared to the empassioned existence of the rich, the noble. Seamus knows. He knows much more than we know. Truest emotions have never been lived, strengh never possessed, love never felt.
This isn't just morality.
He watches the sun make its path, slow emblem of labor and toil. Mysteries to men are solved in a thought's grace in this moment. The fulfillment of the human soul: near the epitome of spiritual maturity. He repairs his net, impervious the world.
Matte Kudasai- K.C.
Still by the window, white as a sheet, she waits in the air. She sleeps, cuddled around a rose bouquet. When was the rain so soft? She waits, cushioned by the dreams living inside her. The slow wind fills the trees with a rampant murmur. A black car shines on the street, outside. She waits.
