to the sounds of the one fifteen train

So these two people are standing on a beach, and it really doesn’t matter what beach it is, only it’s cold and they can feel the wind down to their bones. A grey day for these people on the beach. These crazy people, standing there and looking out at the water.

“What really is the point of living, do you think? Is it really just this? An endless succession of choices until we die, none of it ever really having mattered in the end, right?” She can feel the sand shift beneath her shoes, can see the scuttle of a crab on the periphery, like that poem with a crab blowing bubbles, only it was Maggie and Millie and Molly and May who were looking for The Point. She can’t remember how it ended.

He wonders, for a moment, kicking at a broken piece of shell until it catches on a clump of grass. “Maybe the point of living is finding the point. Maybe the point of living is living itself. Maybe the point of living is learning to live with oranges instead of apples.” He pauses. “Maybe the point of living is on the end of your last cigarette.”

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