I rose early and went. Tasmanian beach; no waves roll in. Only a quiet lapping at the shores. Squeaky sand. Paddling out, thinking Harold Holst. The cold is like being squeezed between giant hands. I exhale and close my eyes. A few bubbles swirling from my nose, up and out. A fattening. My heart beat is sharp pins in neck and the tear ducts. No toes. My open eyes below the surface. The sun is rises now, now. Gloss of light streams. Thoughts flow. Just sparks. Above, it all would be streaming, streaming. Below the surface, prickled eyes perceive flits of white. Circles hollowed out. Flat lights, dispersed silk. Saturating my skin. Sight and all senses are static. White mixes with a wash of red and blue. 

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