Something

I would like to find something, perhaps a metaphor or a simile that would surprise and cut through the torpor, some volt laden charge of insight to jolt a nerve or to set a synapse off into a spasm. I would even settle for the last dying embers of a vision left smoldering by a Prophet or a Sharman high on fungi, to cradle and bring back a spark to light the dark pit of a numbing indifference. But the evening washes out almost to the point of exhaustion as I picture seaweed endlessly clawing at rocks like the fingers of a drowning soul, senseless, disconnected, yet unable to let go. Then this.