The crinkly edges of complexity are a fractal glitch of longshore drift. The son is a sun is a glowing nuclear ball that tucks and rolls like a pebble through the in and out of a tide that is taking a shore to build a mountain elsewhere.
Speak into a shell, a twisting downward spiral into the inner heart of a sound that thinks it is the sea.
You stand there, a dream that the scenery is having; a dreamer breaking themselves down into the constituent parts that fizz like whitenoise at their edges. Waveforms sawing into an ambience.
Tickertape guts of outlines collapsing into interiors and rolling to push out more visual noise. It is a scene. It’s seen.
An island of trash. A jellyfish breathe of pulsation. And clouds boiling away. An interstitial place; a notional breather.
He lights a cigarette and the whole scene unravels in coral ribbons.