Tide in, blowy breakers, deep grey-green with silt in it. Sky is wet, bent over. A word “crystallised” in it. Drifting, long-lining, seining, trammelling, trawling, again, and always. And above that, more light, and here comes the evaluation: that everything will evaporate into nothing, that this book will capture nothing, that everything that is narrated here has occurred within the space of a split particle, where there’s nothing, where no one can hear you think. Hello! Sorry at this perceived confusion or stress. “After we had visited the caves, pale sunshine started to come through while we walked down to the old town through the twittens.” This sentence will continue after we have gone, slowly decaying, until at some point in the future it, too, will fail; the space it encloses will no longer be enclosed. They (who?) demolish the lovely decking, and everything that we held dear. Sun sinks, tide ebbs, tide flows, time passes, there is increasing self-similarity, until no verbs or nouns remain, no one can know that you desiring machines exist, or ever existed, under high eaves in darkness, nor above in light. Write that down, or sing it over the waves:



(This is the final poem in the section "The Sea" from Bardo. More from Bardo here)