today the wind is four years old, sounds like the beach and the water splashing off of it. i am eaten by this little sorrowful space i find myself in, the little space of realisation. doing things i shouldn't do, finding the tiny hidden sorrow of people. seeing the way i move around that. and then wanting to take it in my hands, to make it into a pretty thing, to squash it. to have it be a gone thing, to push it away. and, in that, i realise that all the small things are maybe not enough, and that it is only small things that are mine.