081413 #worm Black water ripples over the small, fine ribs of a lonesome beach. Driftwood isn't drifting anymore--it sits, fine-tuned under the frequency of the lunar spookscape. Someone you knew walked here once, with--someone else? Could it have been you? Do you smell familiarity? Which tiny ripple just out of reach are you? Which bit of moss is the hologrammatic embodiment of your life? Is that pebble--no, that one, over there--is that one your old apartment? Did the two of you swim naked here? Were you drunk on applejack and the horny Fall? Did you plunge into the icy November lake, and did you later catch a cold, but was it worth it? Would you do it all over again, if you could?