Game: Dear Esther

I will hold on to the hand that you will reach out to me: from the very top to the day of the well, to the dark waters, where small flowers stretch to the sun. The headlights are reflected in your pupils, filling the darkness of the crematorium chimneys with moonlight.

It was here that the last realization came to me that there is no turning back. The flashlight goes out, and with it my determination. In the corridors above my head, I hear the singing of sea creatures. They promise the return of the seagulls.

Where you saw entire galaxies, I could only see the wounds that I had inflicted on the rock myself, being intemperate.

I can see my Armada. I collected all the letters I wanted to send you if I came back to the mainland, but actually collected on the bottom of the backpack, and scattered them along the lost beach. Then I took them and made everyone on the boat. I left you in their folds and then, when the sun was setting, I sent his fleet to sea. Split into twenty one piece, I betrayed you to the Atlantic ocean and sat there, waiting for the last part you'll drown.

Then come back to my car, with still trembling hands and head uncovered from the blow. Good-bye, crying aunt and sad uncle. Goodbye feel. Goodbye, tangible. Goodbye, Wolverhampton. Goodbye, Sandford. Farewell, Cromer. Farewell To Damascus. The mountain path was slippery from the dew - it's hard to climb with such an infection. I have to cut out the bad flesh and throw her from the antenna. I have to merge with the air itself.

In those eyes reflected the headlights, too long in the tunnels of my bottomless island. Sea creatures floated to the surface, but no gulls to carry them to her nest. I was stationary in the outdoor and looking, eyes looking at himself. I have become an infected leg, my tracking lines form an accurate map of the intersections on the M5. I will snap at mid-thigh and fall to my Esther.

I - antenna. His death I will post the news on every star in the universe.

I dreamed that I was standing in the center of the sun, and solar radiation frying my heart from the inside. My teeth curl, and her nails are falling into the pockets like coins. If I could, I would eat, but I seem able to absorb only water from the sea. If there still dwelt livestock - I could run wild and eat them. I am exhausted as well as the body on the operating table, opened to determine the causes of premature death. I sailed to this island in the bottomless heart; all the bacteria of my innards pop up to sing for me.

I'd leave gifts on the doorstep of your vault between the rock and the beach. I'd leave you bread and fish, but the supply of fish is over, and I have no more bread. I'd take you back to the mainland in a bottomless boat but I fear the chatter of the sea creatures will make us crazy.

We are not like Lot's wife, you and I have no particular desire to look back. There's nothing to see. Will not be tired, old man, breaking rocks with your hands; gifts or Bibles lying on the sand waiting. The tides will always change the tides, and seagulls scream overhead. The bones of the hermit are no longer waiting for you to take: I stole them and I hid in the bowels of this island, in the blackness passes, and we can cover each other's faces, their strange glow.

Those Islands in the distance, I'm sure - just relics of a bygone time, sleeping giants, gods, lunatics, lying to the dream last night. I wash the sand from my lips and squeeze your hand harder, shaking hands can not hold my fading diaries.

When you were born, told me your mother in the delivery room was quiet. A large red birthmark blanket left part of your face. No one knew what to say, and you cried to fill the vacuum. I have always respected you for it: you cried to fill any vacuum that got. I also began to create a vacuum, so you could use your talent. Birthmark was reduced to six years and disappeared by the time when we met, but your fascination with the void and cure left.

Dear Esther. The seagulls no longer fly here; I noticed this year that they try to avoid this place. Perhaps the lack of fish deter them. I might. When Donnelly landed here for the first time, he wrote that the herd was sick, and their shepherds were considered the lowest of all the poor classes among the inhabitants of the Hebrides. Three hundred years later they went even.

I will be the lantern for you, antenna. I fall from the sky like ancient radio waves of the defective pavement. Underground streams and rivers of ice ground. Bacteria in my guts and heart. A bottomless boat and forgotten vessel in which no one died. As a hermit, and Lot's wife, I turn to stone and open a hole in a mountain that will let me in.