Looking out the window you’d think this would be a choice place to live but I’m sitting on lawn furniture right now and I sleep in a hammock. If Haines stays much longer then I am out of here. Gone. Where? Buck on and on this morning about the great mother sea, fist to fist as we sit by the sea. Our mother the ash grey sea. Just look at it. The ballbusting snotgreen sea. Terrifying. Calling me Kinch the knife but I am not the knife. I can’t be knife. My knife would be made out of the infinitely small, forever dividing within itself the closer you look before it could ever slice something so sinewy as life or thought or time. Somebody show me where Augustine says the now is a knife edge without thickness. So many quote him on that without specific attribution but where does he say this. Show me specifically where. Perhaps I am blind. It is what he believes though, that this now moment, this one, right here and not the one where your eyes were moving when I began this sentence about the now moment but this one now this one divides the past infinite and exploding multitudinous and infinite to nausea from the future singular one. But which one? To be or to be? That is the question.