The shallow island of self waters level.

The storm wanders the vast sphere of the sky’s current horizon, carapace at random to bolts of light, seeking purposes people find themselves within, unable to see the perfection inherent here, or there, as their cases may be. Darts of sky’s manic release crash among us, sending the sensitive, and unwary flying. That night I boarded a large yacht equipt for excesses beyond my imagining, of what daily life contains for us; and I wonder ... is the outside relative to the in, as the other way around suggests? The hosts sound as hollow shells when you rap them; an echo bouncing back ... in perfect camouflage? How else do you field the playing masses, minus the fence to deter, the audience from killing the refs, and detaining the teams, squeezing the stars for autographs, while shredding their jerseys for souvenirs? At once, inured, and possessive to tales history perseveres to reorder, these industrialists blanch at the notion they are not superior to those who mark a different, less logical path. The sycophants shadow their witless social tact, assuming the shoe-in will occur, if they put the host at ease, laughing where laughter isn’t. The appetite of those successes is rather sublime, and difficult to measure ... the cost exceeds the gain, in many respects. Yet those respects, are blighted by ignorance social adherents progress, simply by following minus thinking thoroughly the issues morals discuss.

Anyway, the appetizers were excellent, anterior to the view, which excelled no matter what you stood upon. The booze fowled tongues to truthfulness as the stars glittered; I turned to the man next to me, and said : can you believe how beautiful the varnish is on this boat?! He proceeds to illuminate just what it takes to reach such perfection. The owner paid the premiere maven of the art, to apply the last coat. He meditates, and strips naked in a dust free environment, wielding a hand cut, hundred dollar brush. My in. I ask the owner, how he heard about this character ... and what drove him to such excess. He looks me straight in the eye; there’s an interesting flame kindling there. Why do you ask, he cons me, as I con myself through him. Breaking the shallow ice the sycophants skate, I venture ... Well, is there anything else we’re here for? I see the night’s jewels in that vanish. It lends a depth to the mirror life thirsts for. And his eyes’ center burst into a searing fire; a couple taking liberties with personal space, moved unconsciously to the railing. You don’t say, he stamped on my brain, like keys of an old manual typewriter.

Objects are nothing unless they’re illuminated by love. Fear is also a form of love; the loss of what we’re attached to mutates into energies surroundings absorb, as does the anticipation of reward. What seemed to be his accountant, or lawyer yanked hymen from virgin away; some business deal via cell phone, demands an attention to find obsession’s overt call anew, through less-coupled double-entendres of individuals floating effortlessly on light-streaked lakes. Someone hands me a mixed drink and I cuss inertially ... out of habit. Ah love, you tour it briefly, and it’s ripped away. Can I read over your shoulder? I guess so. It’s challenging to wire yourself from a self-occupied place. The spectator makes it all the more difficult, as they remind us what we’re doing, judging what comes up, or out, if you’re lucky enough to read it, before crossing it out. Are you gay, he asks me. Huh? Like the yacht owner’s call, I am copiously jarred from my pervasive thought, I was just about to worship into reality. I look at him, somewhat vacantly. How did you ... then I get it. I donno. What made you think it?
An interesting discussion ensues, and I leave the wiser, to the benefit of the interruption he provisioned us in.