Rains, Sprays of water from the ocean.. waters of ages past and from places across the seas, places of eternity and places that might never have existed except in memories forgotten and remembered, like recalled dreams in afternoon siestas. Pitter, Patter of the Raindrops.. in the ocean, on the windows, on leaves and beggars and rotting chicken bones. Another gust of wind, a fresh Spray of water. A sprinkle on the face, a spray to wake me up, from the reverie of purposeful wanderings in a land that is no more mine. Like the lands across the sea, existing in memory and nostalgia. Nothing to bind me, Nothing to let me go. But a land nevertheless....
the writing on the wall is always blurred.