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Always the waves. I was never much for swimming, but I do like watching them break. Lilt on stone or churn on sand. Their words that call up the electric sensation hearing them stirs: lilt, churn, seawrack, roil. My friend, who at times takes me for coffee, sips. “Get used to it,” she responds. “It’s going to be that way for a while.” She’s also had her own troubles recently, but of a completely different sort. The waves continue their dance on the stones and pierless pylons. “Well.” I pause. “Fuck.” The plosive snap of the kay pops from the roof of my mouth pleasinglike, resonantly. Quiet and waters on the shore.

Categories: Asides.

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