Faith moans some metaphorical prose.

We lay the most wonderful concrete foundations, sunk so deep into the golden sand that you would dig forever to reach the bottom. We built rooms – fantastic parlours – boasting tremendous silken armchairs and uninterpretable paintings, huge open firepits roaring with the embers of a love which I had long previously seeked, golden corridors that stretched for miles and miles along.

There was one room, one tiny pantry hidden in the back of the kitchen, that held every doubt I ever harboured, every secret we kept from eachother’s steadfast loyalty. Anonymous, haunting voices scratched at its bolted door, ripping at the unsteady wooden frame like the enormous claws of some terrible beast until, finally, I freed them for the relief of my own detrimental curiosity. They pinned me to the once-glorious velvet carpetting with a force the likes of which I could never have anticipated; tore Picasso from the walls, scorched that priceless Chesterfield you often occupied, screeched with primal delight as the silhouette of our exquisite home crumbled into the oncoming tide. They spared nothing, less those singed foundations buried deep beneath the waves.

I swim out to look at them, from time to time. I dive as far down as I can, scraping up feeble fistfuls of silvery sand and reminding myself of the sheer depth of that initial grey basing, but even I know that nothing more could ever rise from such an admirably, spectacularly irrevocable shipwreck.

Over and out.