The Significance of Table 8

Over a spooning cup of long dead coffee, which; isn’t cutting it anymore, I look across the bay, under the wings of a seabird, and imagine all count-less names, over the years, written in shore sand, scrubbed clean by each days, tumbling relentless tide. There is pink noise swimming in the salted air; mixed with white noise, hanging in the chill wind! Together its hypnotic sound, is the morning song of the sea; as the cooling sun slips into, the horizons crimson pocket, as it floats far and away, in the centuries of distance. Then! In an opposing pose of defiance; at a later hour, the pale part moon looks onto another shore. The hours have dissolved, like the sugar in my many cups. And all that’s left are many jumbled words and ideas, but no tea leaf told future, in this espresso moment !