This careless fantasy in which we indulge will be shattered by the circle. The Frisbee, the sun, the moon once per cycle. Don't look at the sun, or you'll burn your retinas. One round blind spot, a point of vision always night. Softly glowed the halo. The saint was only identifiable in the mist by the profile of his head silhouetted against the ethereal gold. His ambience of holiness. Staring deeply into the pupil of someone else. Passive inquiry, not love.

Squared against the surface of the Earth (always falling away towards the horizon, a sensation that can only be appreciated on the beach where tales of sea monsters and the mysterious deep feel a little less like fantasy), the upright monkey sheds a tear for the lost shape of nature. That's why we curl up in moments of great weakness. It's a desperate attempt to regain our roundness. The CD, the powdery black tire, the clock. The batteries died a long time ago. It's always 3:27.

Rommel dragged his feet through the sand, leaving a line of staggered parentheses behind him. The path of potential afterthoughts. A beach ball rolled by in the wind, like bright and happy tumbleweed. The sound of the ocean was drowned out by the gunfire behind him. A group of surfers crouched behind their boards, firing volleys from muzzle loading muskets at a group of obnoxious drunks blasting shitty country music from an out of phase boombox. In a spray of plastic shrapnel, the music stopped, and the surfers ran back into the surf from whence they came. Waves curled over them.

Slowly, Busker pulled his hand out his jacket. Slowly, his grip relaxed. Slowly, he made his way around the bend of the island. Always the circle threatened. Better that than the square.

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Next: Cadenza 1 - In a Bar