at the blurred point of grave sadness, thinking about copp's teeth, about that ideal woman on the beach in egger's novel, the impossible too-far-gone love, the big white wood love sign, copp looking through O, and the further future longing colonizing the present, thinking of coming release when the sadness trails off into fuzzy anger forgone. the tenuous web frayed light in the tree, a yellow leaf suspended. wan fall light.

ducks are dying in the model yacht pond and while i shot this one copp, freshly bathed, jumped in. 

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i read somewhere or maybe it was in the film longford that none of us knows our true purpose. for some reason that's weird to contemplate.

in the aqueous shadow of a dead duck.

silence driven by fear

sorrow for a duck may be sorrow for oneself

the doom of us all so simply accomplished without effort

tweak until you get the feeling, fading lingering flowers not wanting to be tossed, the ear palpitates and the eye dries wanting water so near, and, sustain that, for a while, somehow.