Memories have mouldered in the tin can of my mind. The years break against the beaches and erode, erode, erode. Sleep becomes less important because being awake is like being asleep. The ailments are remembered well enough that they are the background of every dream scene; the aches ebb and flow as the songs of breakers not far from the shuttered window, not far at all.
Blankets wrap me up and curl me into that little place, that space between the sea and the shore where one becomes the other and the other becomes something more. Pushing sparkling grains up and pulling them down again. It was all sea once. There was no sea once. Neither misses those times, I imagine.