SO PEOTIC,

Once there were surfboards in the oceans on the beaches. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their boards wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of salt in your hand. Polished and muscular and torisonal. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep waves where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.