Dream prose, Greece.

I stole a thing from the bow of an old man's boat near the Tropic of Cancer - a souvenir of his priceless cataract view, a kaleidoscope twist on the never-ending story of yoyo yearning, advertorial malleable malaise, bottle stopper love charades, youth lost on pageants of unfixable unbuyable beauty, seas cruised in aid of nothing, irretractable phallic lust machines, the endless dreamless night.

I wanted an old man's shuttered eyelid drawbridge view of my soon spoiled birth and soiled palette of over baked golden skin hues.

I saw his untended nets. I saw his life as one long last day that began virgin tight and unsinkable. I saw the dead muse.

I stole from an old man a carapace as disgraced as a volcano, as telling as an unearned coin and as putrid as forever; but it was just a silent cold thing.