This is the way to change the shape of one's face. To let oneself grow old. Finally. To calm the self, become something wiser...or perhaps simply something else.
This is the way to break the iron force of habit: A pain that won't leave you. Like a tide that has forgotten to go out.
Bo, Bob's boy. This is Bob's boy, Bo. Bob's Bo. Bob's Dot and Bo. Dot and Bo. Bo and Dot.
Just think of the grasses, the shells, the once two-world creatures, the rock face that was an edge. Soaked now to another consistency. Left with new marks bored into their topical maps that will never go away. New old marks. It took a measure of extremes.
Some things happen so they never happen again.
