It was words spoken to the sea: That our death was around the next corner.
That our death was cold, broken and something so unnatural that we, as hosts, were merely what we once believed was travel.
Before the suffering there was suffering.
Before the end, there were flowers from heaven, mana, springs from which water sprang from rock and you understand that water flows from the rock.
Before the before, before the after in which before was unknowable we were shapes and shadows and candles and incense.
Before the after before the beginning before the benign passes your lips you understand the moment and that other moment in which understanding floods our eyesight as moonlight upon a bridge in Paris from which Rilke once remembered that humanity is pain and that we’re all tossing stones before sinking.