Echoes In a Bottle

Here, on the isle of plantains and regrets the saplings were left in mocha soil. Four silver stalks, grafted in lime, upright in slippery shadows of coconut palms. Brass insignia rings left intact at the base of each plant along with portions of a favorite novel. Chapters six and seven, in succession to whet the appetite of future unwilling visitors... After all, do islands recover souls lost at sea with pleasure? Do they break the waves, just right against their skin to save the aqua salt lungs from shriveling in death? Perhaps. And, if so, it's with these gifts to ancient earth and cut off civilization, that we leave our stamp. In the inhuman humidity, with mosquitos grown to humming bird size we will raft our way out to the blue, taking our life's chances, as if they were ours to gamble with. Should you find the remnants of our sentiments, written on the bark of a paper tree, secured, fixed with cork and Steward Brown's wax in this bottle, along with the last of our brandied island thoughts, we pray you success in recovering the part of yourselves which knows how to thrive on the outskirts of the universe. For this, dear friends, is exactly where you are.