Now riddle it with chaos: muddied fury lit by mob-borne flame.
“Change is the only thing. It’s the only thing there is.”
The seagulls, too: they screech in semi-reliably recorded history.
Such keen eyes, such keen resolve.
I watch her and she’s wistless as she weaves and waves again.
The air’s electrically-lit between each of the eight trees – their roots breaking the grey and moss-green, late-night, cobbled surface.
Such sudden change; a moment of momentum.
If I walk over the water and across the road, I’ll be merged with the final paragraphs.