There is nothing to do there is nothing to do
but sitting quietly in the almost dark
listening to the rain again
and again and again
and thinking of the vast blue sea
and breathing, breathing in and breathing out
like you’re the shore and you’re the waves
and that funny little ship dancing in the breeze
until you’re dizzy and sea sick and a little homesick too
cause that’s what rain does to you.

You realize
all your tomorrows stepped off somewhere
way back without as much as a nod
a pat on the back or a tip of the hat.
Well, that’s that. Less to care about.
Because if you recall there is nothing to do
nothing to do neither today nor tomorrow and
supplies of yesterdays are dwindling too.
At this point it all becomes clear; feel this point
settle in this point and be this point for this
is the point of your life.

Did you know ‘point’ is French for
Hard Stop?
(Fucking French
I could have died without knowing this.)

Passing mermaids are wailing out there
while I munch on finely cut red apple pieces and bad philosophy and breathe in and out
or at the very least
there’s breathing.

True 
there is nothing to do but be.
In its own way the rain knows about me
high above these clouds of hers and mine
there is only empty fullness

shine shine shine

(looking like a madman feeling like a boar)