- What was it about?

- Not about the view of that line, which divides water from clouds, but ruptured by the ships' stagnant lull. Neither there for the sand inside my shoes nor the ants crawling - they are either not bright enough to see the difference between me and the bench, the trees, the shells or the pebbles. Or audacious enough to try telling me about the similarities I share with those things. Whatever its intention, they are courting death. To be taunted by an ant's crawl, turned murderous. How pathetic!

- Close enough to the shore, but you are under the shade.

- At that point, I nearly wanted to register it as million frill fingers of the breeze... caress, etc. It is not like it is any better now that I recognised it as feathers. For me to say how the feathers of the breeze brushes lightly, how the feathers of the breeze burshes light, through my hair, illuminating the gaps between the the fabric weaved to cover.
Only wanted to describe the sensation properly, the form correctly, before I leave the place and this thought. But a way Beckett would reject, expressions she would mock. And today is surely not the day to be rejected by them. But do I really care? Or rather simply, I was tickled by the breeze, the tickling breeze... but it wasn't exactly ticklish. I was reminded of those humid, windless days at the same place, and that's it.

- Is that all?

- Once again, what's mentioned is another set of abstraction which didn't cover his presence; what he told me about the twigs of Casuarina when I asked him for the name of the trees lining along; of the crow above, a spider beneath; of how I didn't see him emerging from the green sea; of the insignificant passerbys that interrupted as episodes; of what I was reading; of the caramel glass shard I picked from the sand; of me telling him why it is irritating to listen to him, when he only gives lectures when he speaks; the difference between dialogues and monologues; of our differences like chlorinated water from the faucet, and salty water from you know where...
'Last Evenings on Earth' by Bolano, I was once again reminded. Only that fight, which is a death invitation, could reenliven the relation.

Like the story, my dad was once a boxer too.