In the sea, I am the buoy that never moves. I am the dark boat in the night, I will not be known to the likes of you. Seasons go and the trees whimper, I am still. I will never move, unbleached by the sun, untracked by the wind. Soon enough they have given up. I will forever be the buoy that never moved.

Wait till we bring out the old records of loss, and play them so thin to the wire again. We forget that we’ve been here before, the vinyl bare and cracked, a poor bearer to our age old burdens. We are desperate. Play again the songs of yesterday’s loss so that it drowns in today’s, grief for times a many I no longer remember. A million times we have stood here, and a million times again we will grasp to the the futile strings of notes devoid of words. Though this time we are out of luck. The record breaks, the cloying tones disappear. It is silent, we are alone with our thoughts. We are out of luck.