The myriad choices of his fateSet themselves out upon a plateFor him to chooseWhat had he to lose

It's a breath you took too late.It's a death that's worse than fate.

One by one, they guessed aloud about what Lotto had meant by this sculpture: nautilus, fiddlehead, galaxy. Thread running off its spindle. Forces of nature, perfect in beauty, perfectly ephemeral, they guessed. He was too shy to say time. He__ woken with a dry tongue and the urge to make the abstract concrete, to build his new understanding: that this was the way that time was, a spiral.He loved the uselessness of all the effort, the ephemerality of the work. The ocean encroached, it licked their feet. It pushed around the outside wall of the spiral, fingering its way in. When the water had scooped the sand from the lifeguard's chair, revealing white like bone beneath, something broke, and the fragments spun into the future. This day would bend back and shine itself into everything.

We should get jerseys, cause we make a good team; but yours would look better than mine, cause you're outta my league.

As long as music survives, poetry will never die.

Writers begin with a grain of sand, and then create a beach.