Time and Surf

A blue as a local mailbox and a long-awaited as a letter, weather is finally fine and I can go for a walk. At this time of year the beach of Biscarrosse looks like the phone call I had with you this morning – empty and long. A pebble, a shell, a shard of glass and another one and another. Time. That's the word, which somehow the most often repeated during our talk, repeated, repeated and neither you nor me could stop this repetition, as we cannot stop this ocean surf that aspires to lick my feet. To throw a coin. if time is money space's change for a bill so large that none can change it