and he writes
frantically
scratching words onto parchment
fingers aching nearly seizing
grip all too tight
occasional flourishes
he pauses
is he thinking?
he returns
the storm bellows in the distance
knees pressed into sand
unfamiliarly
desperately
hunched
itās coarse sand
slightly damp
he struggles to write
on harsh paper
on uneven ground
he is working with what he has
he pauses again
what is he thinking?
his scribings look like scribbles
he is trying
the winds picks up
hair blowing in his face
and him blowing it back
how long is this letter?
who is it for?
a final flourish
he coils his note
almost precisely
he stuffs it into a bottle
corking it
almost surprisingly
clear
he pauses again
he must be thinking
QUICKLY
he hurls it into the ocean
toward the rumbling
bitter cold ocean mist hits the bottle
plunking deep
deeper
only to resurface
with a breath of fresh air
choppy waves pounding
relentlessly
violently
the bottle thrashes about
climbing
the oceanās mountains
cascading itās depressions
this time slowly descending
it reaches a valley
and
and what of the man?
CRASHING down
the tidal wave slams the bottle
from stories above
disorienting
flipping the bottle every which way
is he still standing at the shoreline?
but the bottle trashing about
kept only afloat by its
scientific tenacity
through no will if itās own
it travels
this time up again
riding the wa-
*SMASH*
against the side of a great
wooden ship
the bottle smashes open
the man stares
the ship
stares?
almost looking as if returning his blank gaze
he looks less than defeated
empty?
not far off in the distance
a sea of bottles
