Before & After

Roscow wasn't the end. No, in fact, it didn't really ever begin there nor end there.

Who was Roscow anyway?

Can anyone remember.

Characters, in crowds, like floating shells in the sea. They are cut differently out of the master's plaster-paris mould, and they float amidst a morass of seaweed.

The currents bring them in and then another strong current draws them out - further and further than the current before.

The sea is messy, the sea is perilous, the sea can take life and it does. It crashes, it washes, it stings, it moves you.

And so, all the shells come from the sea and it was there, to the seas, that they returned.

They had lurched forth - vomited out from the sea, onto the shore and in the next current the waters covered them and dragged them back into the deep waters to drown.

They lie on the floor of the seabed - out of sight, out of reach and not yours or mine.

Shells of the sea.

It is there, that they must be.

For it is not yet, you see.

That shells belong, to you or me.

The sea is Jealous,

especially of Shells.