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Seaweed

“May I change it?” she asked rhetorically, referring to her life, her entire existence from birth on, using the third neuter singular object pronoun. How funny life has become. The inkling is there, in the marshes of the oasis, when you hit another depersonalization episode, when distant happy memories are the chief source of your current melancholy. But these were not the thoughts to be painted in words, nor encoded in tender gestures during intimate communication. It is when deliberate vigor to that visceral howling curse, which so fittingly accompanies the occasionally entrapped mind, is retained like tea leaves in an infuser. Like dead seaweed washed ashore.hdr_7586_crop