The boardwalk ends like a pension plan that stopped showing up. A sign says area closed, but the ocean never followed rules.
Planks slump like ex-employees waiting for purpose to call back. Shadows come and go— no clock, no punchline, just habit.
They called it retirement— a view, some quiet, the slow reward. But it feels more like a layoff nobody bothered to announce.
No memos, no coffee, no names left to forget. Just wind filing its own report. I lean on the rail, light fading. So this is what all the meetings were for.
There it hangs like it forgot something, like maybe it left its body behind— too clean, too soft, too damn dreamy for this busted room and crooked light.
Bella wore it drunk, barefoot, laughing through the wreckage of her last good thought. Said she’d marry a trumpet player. She didn’t. She left it on a fire escape.
Luna danced in it once— no shoes, no god, just rain. She drowned in her bathtub, water humming hymns, dress breathing.
And Zoe? Zoe wore it to the trial, eyes full of dust from forgotten dreams. She left it spinning on a motel fan, a slow ghost orbiting her exit wound.
The cleaning lady touches it with gloves, crosses herself, whispers to the floor. She’s seen blood come out of tile grout— but never anything that shrieks like this.
No one claims it now, while it drapes over air like it’s trying to disappear. Some say it hums when no one’s near, a lullaby with teeth behind the silk.
I’m Box #8, red, fabulous, and slightly tilted. Don’t judge—I’ve held more secrets than your therapist. The orange one’s always anxious— thinks rain is a government experiment.
Yellow believes he’s a portal to the insect realm. Keeps whispering “The beetle king will return.” Green meditates. Sends vibes to the squirrels. We don’t ask what’s in his letters.
Blue gets love notes. Every. Single. Day. Claims it's a curse. We think he likes it. Purple? Full-on drama. Tarot cards, glitter, once screamed because someone mailed a potato.
We’ve seen it all— breakup letters sealed with glitter tears, late bills folded like apologies, invitations no one answered.
Still, we hold space. For hope. For coupons. For the next peculiar thing you’ll send.
We’re not just mailboxes. We’re personalities with hinges. We hold the town’s gossip, taxes, dreams, and junk. We’ve seen things. Heard things. Now please—lift gently. No one likes a slam.
We walked through that tunnel again last night. Water up to our ankles, the smell of something old. Graffiti on the walls—names, dates, symbols we couldn't read. You said it felt like a dream you wouldn’t tell me.
The rope still hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. I wondered who put it there, and why. Our reflections in the water looked back at us, distorted, like strangers we have become.
Beyond the tunnel, the street lights flickered. We stood there, listening to the distant hum. I wanted to say something, but the words— they just weren't there.
The distance between us stretched like the tunnel itself, longer than before, heavier than silence. We turned around and walked back, leaving the tunnel— and what we once had—to its own darkness.
the posters scream LET’Z PARTY but the sidewalk says fuck that. she leans against the wall, black crop top stamped FAKE, chains swinging from her skirt, boots laced high like battle armor. studded choker tight around her throat, a promise of restraint she dares to defy.
the photographer crouches, camera shaking, hands too tight— trying to catch her in the totality of his desires— sharp, brilliant, untouchable. the lens bends the moment, shadows stretch over concrete, but Fake doesn’t see him not past the lens, not past the wanting.
what is fake if the moment is real? what is real if the moment is lost? she tilts her head, lips parted, an almost-smirk, that flirts with invitation, but lands in indifference. her eyes flickering past the lens, slipping through the frame, leaving the photographer stranded in her self-regard.
he has already said too much in the way he bows, head low, as if in prayer, in the way she swallows his admiration.
and when Fake walks away— because of course she will— hips swinging, metal clinking, her shadow stretching long in the heat, she won’t turn back, won’t see the camera lower, won’t notice the photographer staring at the empty space she leaves behind, like a fool who thought she ever could have been his.
Light spills from the mirrored dome, cascading through a river of glass— fish frozen mid-dance, corals aflame, a swirling, weightless world suspended between water and dream.
The incantation of the sea rises here, woven in tendrils of sapphire and jade, where a tangerine-striped fish, mouth agape, hovers beside a cobalt bubble, as if whispering the ocean’s oldest spell.
Beneath the coral’s outstretched fire, the octopus curls in quiet knowing, shifting between what is seen and unseen, while the sea turtle drifts without hurry, its shell a map of forgotten tides.
Above them, the manta ray glides, dark wings spread like a whispered prayer, turning as though it has forgotten the difference between falling and being held by the unseen.
And I stand beneath it all, bathed in the shimmer of turquoise and gold, listening for the hush of water, the slow, steady thrum of the deep, the spell of the sea unspooling into light.
Seascape (a one of the largest cruise ships in the Italian MSC fleet)
The truck rests, a carcass of intention, its frame dissolving into the ground as snow recedes in slow apology.
Once, it was motion — a vessel of thunder, the promise of distance held in the tension of gears.
Now, it inhabits stillness, a geometry of decay, the metal’s quiet erosion a dialogue with time.
In its silent decay, there is a pride— etched in every worn edge and dent. A testament to labor well done, with no regret shadowing a life of honest work.
Yet, in its ruin, a persistence: the shape of what was, refusing to become less.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 