Strange dirty shoe. Talking to the water. Here I lost my purpose. Where the salt was a girl, a world, a creature of the sea. The laces, encrusted and torn. A day I ran. Not my shoe. Dirty old thing. A thought desolating and absurd. The sole, you see. Examining it. Each scuff or wear. Like lips in stories. Talking. Where the girl was I ran. Scuffed. The sole. Such wounds as worlds entrace.