I would like to write the rose-colored beach and the pearly ocean. And it is February. Completely impossible. My words can’t tell you the simulateously infinite and yet finite beach rolled out like a[n] immense carpet of rosy sands. My words are colorless. Barely sonorous? What I can tell you, a painter would show you. I would like to break your heart with the magnificent calm of a beach safe from man. But I can’t do it, I can only tell it. All I can do is tell the desire. But the painter can break your heart with the epiphany of a sea.
Crossposted with Love Dog