Diphenhydrinate

The soft slow pull of the Glasgow wave, you can feel the froth trailing beneath your legs... Dream bubbles, ghost echoes, white on pale shore, I'm moving toward the shifting horizon; Purgatory, the line where dreams live and cross sometimes in visions. I'm straddling the line where our vase was shaped and broken, where the old ship sailed and gone the way of the sirens. Yet now it is not love, but the mind that crawls- root of all illusion. It is easy to miss truth in sick transparencies, all character is falsity, super-ego, philosophy on the shores of the West, contemplating the shore until it no longer exists.