Four o clock is a not yet. Like a sleep is a not yet. It will come. The comfort and certainity of futures that remain simple. Motor reaction like, knee jerk, not half as calamitious. Bordering on the banal. The story was on a ship. Sailing across sea, chasm like, vacuum cleaner in suction mode , at night, things remained rudimentary. There was work at day, there was work at night, there was work in between. Like air. Enough for all to breathe in without worrying about greed. The crew couldn t talk. A breed of rats that had bred itself near the hull, brought in a plague once. None died. Only tongues started to rot. Cut off one by one, elements of conversation walked the plank. Silence was established. It was a fair deal. Sea was seldom not in suction mode. It needed things to feed on. Secrets that tongues might have hid fit the bill. Or so it seemed. There was still a treasure to search . As always there is. On better days it was called hope, on nights of lust it turned to gold. Where? On an island with the siren sitting on a tower with fancy flutemen dreesed in suave blue and nude fucked up fallen adams, sometimes eves too. All this magic but rarely any hares running down holes, slight hunger pangs, music from top of the tower, only song allowed to be sung, Ain't no jelly in the jelly fish darling, and doors, all shut with silver locks, a card game on the edge, these everybody wait for the crew to come, seperated by absence ,the two sets, the two thickened spaces, linked by a ship,yearn for the other. Absence sea lit, split wide wide open.