and there, i swing upwards with the rushing hum of these last seven days, the way that they will not be enough, the way they have not begun until the pitch of now. and there, i swing around and back again, and then where will this little world be, the cupcake of it? and i will pack it up my friends, fit all that i can carry of it into the smallest little space, think that that is enough, that i have nothing forgotten. then, later, when i remember, i will make do with the things that i have, with my skin and the shape of my hands, the tips of my fingers and their own recollection. and then, and later, i will look down and there will be sand places and memory and the sound of the beach beating itself again, and the flying buzz of living that this place likes to manifest. this is such a different walking away, this is a walking towards something, a walking with something. and in the last filled up and brimming three months of my life i have nothing more than i came with. which was, i guess, everything.