When the high tide rolls in, annihilating sand castles and other bucket-shaped architecture made with the small hands of small people, it all disintegrates in seconds as the backwash robs the structure of their seemingly innate yet unaquired stability. Mass destruction.

When did everything start to deteriorate? There’s a drought here in L.A. and I’m so fucking thirsty. This saltwater tastes like shit.

Those mighty castles don’t belong where the bottom feeders dwell deep in the murky bay, next to the embeded coins and wedding bands of people who toss things in water for whatever reason. In times of want for refuge, what a sad and perfect cemetary. They should sit in my backyard, where they can harden in the sun. I’ll build a little city where we all can live.

They say hell is something you carry around with you, not somewhere you go. I’m guessing there’s not much water there either.   

And I’m thirsty for life, while mourners and brides in winter weddings carry deathly toned, dark plum calla lillies, screaming of their own mortality. Celebrations, funerals… same flowers. Same people.

I’m thirsty for meaning from the writers and poets I love, even the ones who don’t bother to rhyme properly when they end stanza B with the word “alone” and stanza D with “abalone.” 

I’m thirsty for you, baby. I’ll never get enough. Meet me in hell—it’ll be fun. Bring Evian. 

I’l be waiting up high in the tower, praying for rain.