He fled work at five. He ate bulgogi and banchan, spicy tofu soup, and crunchy cooked rice. He rode to where the Lake Termina Funfair is long gone, where Grandad as a lad played Swing.
Deep-stepping dry sand and parting reeds, stalked by a ghost, he passed remnants… ruins… wreckage… rubble… residue… dust…
Through fly swarms he forged, and footprinted damp sand, and he reminisced, in his bygone childhood, being Grandad’s shadow.
Shore others jigged and tagged, touched and held, stared out at nothing, and gazed into others’ eyes. Shore others far off. Others.
Countless gulls were careful on the ground, watchful from encrusted pilings, and carefree aloft, and he regretted, as a stupid kid for pals, once mocking Grandad’s limp.
To the water’s edge, toward the setting sun, he went, and toed the toe of the surf and eyed the eye of the glare, and he teared up for never apologizing.
Yet it wasn’t about that, or just that, but everything, from forever, even before him, and Lake Termina was too shallow and small to absorb Surtch Pherther’s deepest desire…
It doubtless would return the body to shore.
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