None. Blue seashells over my eyes I call them coins leave them under the gravestones that like the old man's teeth rot in long lines lisping out old vague drunken songs I don't wish to recall whatever words were written in our past I am not connected to the tears that are escaping from these shells I want to become the ridges become the gradients of color on the outside I no longer wish to pay for living with my sight Vacant. conch shell thunder in my ear hanging from a headphone wire the empty soundless waves the coiled marks in the ...