The sea’s burnt tragedy is cannibalistic death. Eternal wait, stick figure messiah grins in absence; draw lots. Wait, more wait, wait more, the sea is an endless lack of time. There is a hunger. There is hunger from the sea, from all things that gasp last breaths at taboos. More waiting, wait, wait until the sea is its own doppelganger, its own vague haunting simulacrum doubling upon itself. Its anticipation palpable. The bookie takes odds on thirst hunger or insanity, on the nutritional taste slake value of a half-pint of human blood. And the sea laughs, spits prayers, judges, finds wanting. Waiting more waiting, more thirst/hunger. The sun has left again; his dark toddler multiplies the base sea, the crying sea. And it will come. I have seen the leather liquor’s passing and the sound flee. Make good time and time good demon. The cerebellum bullet. The end of hunger waiting thirst.