To lost the ability to count,
swimming within an envisioned time line,
rather not know, the space I exist on.
What is a year with - three hundred and seventy four days, or lesser, or more.
What does the cycle of repetition matter, as seasons change, or summer stays.
The value of decimal captures no more of how far I should disperse.
Limits no speed, nor countable nouns, red I shed, or of any circumstances.
It is only I,
the sky and its reflection,
maybe some sand on the palm.
And vague, pictures...
No, pitch black.
Sitting by the sea,
counting stars.
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