Here I sit,
here I sit,
upon the beach,
catatonic in the envious sun,
catatonic in the envious sun,
the sun whose work is never done.
Catatonic and frantically trying to keep cool,
at the same time,
yes, a bit of an oxymoron.
Catatonic and platonic.
The relationship of us.
Catatonic and platonic, or is it,
for we love it, the sun,
but is it secretly trying to get rid of us?
I have my suspicions,
but still, here I sit not moving,
not moving in the glorious heat of its rays,
soaking up everything,
and I enjoy it for its beauty, and I cannot imagine it gone,
and how beautiful it is to just lay here so peacefully,
and how beautiful it is to be free,
and how wonderful it is to sit in the hot sun,
and get absolutely nothing done,
and how wonderful too, to not have to pay for the view,
the glorious, beautiful view of the beach,
and the sea that is absolutely free,
and so far, so far from the city,
where there is, only frantic mostly joyous work to be done.
