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The flounder, swimming along like driftwood-deadwood.

The fish is dead, the smell of fried death.

In the summer sun, an apathetic sun...the swell uplifts.

A sun from a meaningless, hollow time...a time of Kurtz.

He dead.

The stranger frolics in the sun. The beach is still, like a

smooth swimming silence, narrow and empty. The shore smells

of nothing. The smell of dead fish. Anger swells like

the tide...the piercing light grapples with the eye.

A time not good enough to base a movie on...a B-movie at best.

The stranger and the fish.

Fish and stranger.

Dead and nothing,

stuffed with straw

and apathy.

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