22 April 2006


A Memoir From the Age of Tears

In those days we cried constantly from the sorrow of the world. We cried so much and so often that the ocean believed it had a relative living on dry land. She tried talking to our tears (as we learned later) but we were too busy producing the tears to understand the effect of our tears. The ocean swallowed up beaches and lapped at our feet, reaching, insistently, for something. We waded into her and kicked up salt spray. We were so happy. The tears stopped. The ocean, thinking it had lost something precious, slid back to its brooding indifference.


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