But as the tide reappears each day a bit higher or lower, and the salted sea breathes backwashed foam up to washed sandy beaches, until the curl of The Way Things Are pushes back into the sea, this accustomed pattern of attempting to create was of the same force- it mirrored the incessant breeze that always goes back into the ocean, the words reciprocate this back into the mouth, retracted from paper into this meticulous wonderment that is creative ability or lack thereof. Trying to write while catching the tide.