F-stop Blues.

Hermit crabs and cowry shells crush beneath his feet as he comes towards you. He's waving at you. Lift him up to see what you can see, he begins his focusing. He's aiming at you and now he has cutaways from memories, and close-ups of anything that he has seen or even dreamed. And now he's finished focusing. He's imagining lightning, striking sea sickness away from here. Look who's laughing now that you've wasted how many years and you've barely even tasted anything remotely close to everything you've boasted about. Look who's crying now. Driftwood floats, after years of erosion incoming tide touches roots to expose them, quicksand steals my shoe. Clouds bring the f-stop blues. Look who's laughing now that you've wasted how many years and you've barely even tasted anything remotely close to everything you've boasted about. Look who's crying now.