Seashells Peering into that place, the house of mine with my studied crevices filled with memories, overflowing with images that used to belong to me. The images are now slipping, disappearing, those crooks now empty for a new mind, a new set of memories, a new home. This house seems nothing more now than a shell, a home I unwillingly grew out of, now simply cascaded on the beach for a new body to fill. This shell of mine is now empty. This shell of mine isn't even mine at all, because it was someone else's first, and now it will belong to yet another heart, an endless game of chance and loss- certainty and hope. And so it ends with me alone, the sand sliding through my fingertips and the ocean slowly making its way closer and closer to where I beckon it. The water comes and leaves, leaving shells scattered throughout the compromised clash of where land meets sea. And in my lap lay a jumble of empty homes, memories of those that have moved on, new ideas and dreams within a new house for a new #life. With these seashells I remember the thoughts in which people believe all literature comes down to either love or death, And with that I begin to realize that when it comes down to seashells, there is all but an equal amount of both.