For over a decade I tried pretending this isn't my destination, this isn't my home. Yet it welcomed me twice with sickly hot days and opportune moments to join its light vein.
So I'll stay and ebb with the flow. Truth be told, I feel more like flotsam and jetsam after hurricane Europe. And I'm tired of the never ending schemes to escape, brewing like bitter tea at the back of my head.
I'll eek an existence in the grey citadel by the dying lake. The ocean gawking will have to wait until I'm old. Sounds almost poetic. I'll pack up my aged carcass, move somewhere by the ocean and die on its shores.
