I sit alone, trying to think of what to write. It is hot; the heat permeates my skin, but only to a point of pleasurable discomfort. The absence of humidity keeps it bearable. The endless motion of the waves reflects the perpetual nature of the human race, yet the waves also signify that there is an end. What are we but temporary travelers in the abject mass we call “Earth”?
THOUGHTS
Odysseus' Quest 