Move as slow as that fisher's boat. Unanchored, undirected. Nets and hope drifting, unfathonable. Slow your breathing, your steps specific, pre-plan and measure. Nature control. See the day as a process, a staircase of moments.
There's a light and heat overwhelming. There's that slow invisible pressure to do less. There's that sun bleaching all ambition.
This heavy silence of underwater things is a tension, a driftworld, half visible by imagination, fear floating somewhere, everywhere. Only the hard rock concrete remains unaffected. Poured and formed by dead hands in cooler days. Thrown up and muddled in, a wave barrier more than a beach. No cushion comfort for our intermittent white bodies, a rough reef eroding us in flakes and dust. The weedseeds, waiting in their holes, dark, patient, counting the sunsets until their counterattack.
Throned on his balcony, upon his wicker, a morning to sunset surveillance. He reads, he watches, he murmurs and bides. Surely wondering about roads and paths, choices and turns, doors and eyes. Under light and through the dark. A Sunday night sepia already blurring the corners.