I felt old pages in my hands today as I walked down to the post office, in a village by the sea. The sea was so bright it almost blinded me, reminding me, that things can last past a death gaze, my memories of this place are hazy. Not because I don’t remember but because they’re coated in crystalline sugar, and the warm body of the person I loved most relaxing in the hot summer sun. The cool waves beat against my flushed thighs, in this memory, like a whipshot call. The sea always calls, the next horizon always calls, the sun always calls beyond the cliffs that dive into a line of colour and fury and beauty. I forget, sometimes, packed into a desk, that life is full of bright fury, old books, and waves that lick at thighs stronger than their owner knows. Sugar coated hazy memories follow me as I wander into the post office today, to collect a parcel gone astray, and the scent of bread wakens the sense of memory. A good one. A good one. A good one, this time.