Never underestimate the power of an ocean.

Little by little, tap by empty tap, a fingertip rises from inaudible pestering to thunder, calculating aside what noxious damages are posted from sea to whining sea. Your life will not stop tapping me on the shoulder. I turn to react but nothing is there. Widespread forest fires and plastic catastrophes are limiting your ability to govern. I wait for video of your voice to reach the future. You are overdosed and thundering. Your vessel, a retention pond of saliva, sweat, and inscrutable fluids of remorse; has come close to detonation. Waiting for action to commence I saw you tremble, unable to hold the communion wafer a priest rejected by carefully -- meticulously -- placing it in the trash can of your life. Insolance comes easy but so do jackasses and charlatans. In channels of librarial optimism I compelled corporate hydræ: "Dismantle sincerity's coddling! Minestrone has been soup of the day for 30 centuries and now its creators sit in the park with nothing to do. Do you think this justifies the reassembling of eternity? Validation! Validation!"

The scrum in which your punches thinned flips cans of paint onto mushrooming cupcakes. Pizza logic inspired you to revisit the torturechamber of my youth, an unsettled property plagued by misguided incubators and peacock remonstrance. Narrow-minded concretists lie broke-bellied under tweedy backwash of failed Danish poets, wielding felt-tip pens like honeydew melons on unzoned Florida land. Madcap antics reverberate through Paxil's sinful concatenation, inspiring what came to be known as the Discretion of the Damned. Jesus' incorruptible concentration intruded upon the safety of wifely homeliness, rendering anger's crutch moot as a drunkard's spatter. You put chocolate pudding into your propeller, spraying hobo luxury into a fine mist. Anonymous priests regaled the President's plans to indemnify practitioners of holistic propaganda, causing confusion among cassette tape traders. In response you refused separation from your stuffed Wookie. Words you used last week have shifted meaning. Friends you made last year turned into goats. Explosions of flavorful politics threw acrobats into orbit, silencing idle gods squatting on invisible stars. You listened but never understood meaningful words on how hot air balloons crumple when you breath too much of their helium. Don't listen to them, you whisper to yourself, wrenching your forgotten youths asunder. Don't listen to the balloons.