Ron: Half of this poem is illegible.
Lex: It doesn't matter: soon enough all of it will be that way.
Ron: You know, I hate it when people become dead while living. This is often happens when they get exposed to too much metaphysical crap. . .
Ocean Reflections Surrounded by emerald-blue immensities crashing in flurries of foam the ocean follows majestic rhythms better than any poem. And within each drop of the pelagic sea the Hands of Death also weave. Even after leaving primal waters our consciousness waxes and wanes thoughts mutate into beachside froth and a rhythmic roar inside of us suggests the sea is never far away. . . Nor is the Grim Reaper who moves with the tide of each day.