He runs through constant spirals.

In his tank he can shoot at anybody he wants. He sips tea.

She once slapped their son. Who didnt cry as much as her.

Sand in hand they sat amidst the black and whistle calm. Time slows (trickles through the sand) the sea tips tickled to a fishbone white

He said just then your fingers felt like ammonites piled into a glove.

She once bought a fan in the yearly jumble sale.

A soft hiss swoops through the waves that tickle the sea tips fishbone white.

He runs into the abyss. Her face lies in the train window. An image. A ghost. The two merge, overlap by an eye. He looks to the faint one the most.

A soft hiss swoops through the waves that tickle the sea tips fishbone white.

With every swoop her skin was drawn towards the blades.

Sit out and argue whether satellite or aeroplane snatches your peripheral vision.

In two thin strips he peels his skin and leaves it on the floor.

She just didnt get why he cried when he sprained his ankle.

He said beaches feel to me like a waste of sand.

A fan she points towards her bed where she perches naked.

He runs because he can. So when the titles roll up the wall, she can feel the wind, caressing.

They laugh and agree: her crying sounds like a seagull.

Fix that table she says whilst she picks fibres from the sofa.

When they sit to watch Holby City in the evening all he can think is of running away.