24 February

Thales sitting crisscross applesauce on the beach, staring out at the Aegean. Eyes fixed West towards a crumbling Greece propelling itself towards excrement. If there were a sun, the sun would be setting here, now, over Greece and the docile and darkening sea. If there were sand, there would be sand on the back of his thighs and in his crack, but Thales would not be bothered by it. He sits expressionless on the beach.

Greece going to shit what with the bubble-burst of ’08, still not recovered from the burst, maybe never to recover, but definitely going to shit. The Euro, too, going to shit, after such a strong decade, too. But Greece hasn’t been the same for some millennia now.

Thales knows that Greece is not going to shit. There is no Greece. There is no shit. He rises up out of the physical and fleshy shell still sitting crisscross applesauce on the beach, and hangs for a second, like a halloween prop from some invisible tree branch, swaying in the wind.

What wind?

After the brief pause, he begins to smile a slight, incorporeal smile. He streamlines into the sea, not making a splash.

It is all water. It always was.

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