Most of the I-don’t-know-how-many words I read a day disappear into the ether, somewhere between memory and forgotten. Some get saved on my computer for possible Monday Motivators. A few get written down, and chanced upon when I look through a sketchbook.
“The sea makes a tired sound
That?s always stopping though it never stops.”
Always stopping but never stops sounds like painting and drawing and writing and living to me.? Driven compulsively by the pull of [mental/inspiration/ muse] gravity, always stopping but never stopping until the final, irreversible stop.