The more hours I spend surrendering myself to a nihilic idealist version of paradise – that nothing matters – the more I drown I drown I drown I drown… I grab onto the raft and my nails break and even back on the shore I mourn that. / I was never taught how to mourn so I make do with my popsicle stick version of grief and card through the stages without feeling, without catharsis. The waves roll on their backs expectantly, like mouths, tongues. A seagull steals my sandwich, and I turn ravenous with losing.