Lion Sur-Mer Poem by Maxwell Ames

I watched the sun set on the coast of the universe. I couldn't get home because I missed the last bus, so we, two mental nomads roamed about. We spoke about time, the thing that exists, but with an artificial name, something we have to give a name and a concept to understand it in our heads. Something I'll never understand, the feeling of time-traveling through an event. I've waited so long to live in France, now I'm here experiencing it, but in a few months I'll be gone, the time will have passed, and I will only have a memory. We do things like this, like writing, to maintain our sanity and to prove that what we experienced existed. A mind is a malleable thing, and one can change lives with changed memories, which define who we are, how we behave. Interestingly enough, to say we exist is true, but I have existed as well, and in fact I will exist. But memories? They exist, but the events existed, so is that to say they don't exist now? Everything in the past doesn't exist now, it existed then. Past tense. A few kilometers, dinner, and wind chills later we arrived on our home for the night. From that beach with fields of flowers a ferry pushed to the Ouistreham harbor, and we knocked down a patch of plants to sleep on. I listened to peruvian music and stared at the stars, lost in thoughts and shivering.