There is one chance, and it is continuous until you stop breathing. Everything you've done will be part of what you do next.
We are shifting, shiftless, shifting sands washing up forever on the shore against the rain.
Setting forth, realizing we left behind that old habit we'd only just begun again after having quit. A lone cig fished from an old pack is tossed in the backseat. No match arrives. Shotgun barrels over picklejar barrel of laffy taffy until we arrive.
We carry out artillery chairs, our dafter noon. Wind pushes our umbrellas sideways on the sand, framework dins play so we stay, we three. Then four and then more; never two.
We share notes on different motes in differing coasts. We defer before the tide.
We ride the wave blatant enough. Belay that what inauthenticates us amongst what remains.
Dreams kick. We shade the sun's reflection off the sea so to see the day laborers soak and desalt.
Walking, we find a cut line with hook, sinker—impetus enough to cut or cure a weal well enough. We wrap it in wet cardboard and place it in the now-empty picklejar.
Seeping from the sea, we part. A taxi carries us along strabsmic mallsinconvenience. One red light flashes fresh doughnut temptation and deepfried seafood windows changeless and less.
We do not stop. Our talk shifts from belief to beef and crab legs, skirting the past.
Retuning, turning out the scent of sun screen grid, sweat: grin. We don't expect saving, still.
first two sentences from John Franc.