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Description
It ended with Vietnam, a boat, and too much water.
It was all an apparent example of situational irony, save the humor. The little hiccoughing laughter. The throwing back of your head and lolling with appreciation.
It was so simply structured, bordering on formal. One event after the precedent event. The time still ticking. The waves still grasping for the imminent introduction of sand. Like the sand turns to glass turns to jagged bottle-green litter on the beach, turns to sand.
Like one event after the precedent event.
--
Sometimes he feels the sorrow drinking water. He is 72.8% water, he is a human being.
He spends an approximation of 32 hours per week at the university, breathing and thinking and feeling biochemistry. Yet what he is looking for is in the neighboring department and was proposed as a topic by a top PhD student but turned down due to lack of reliable research material.
He sits 1,920 minutes per week, 27.2% research material.
He wonders how so much of him can be water when all of him is sorrow.
He wanders, perspires, but drinks more water.
72.8% is a constant.
--
At times, He suspects a scent of cinnamon in the stairwell leading to his apartment. Ground, perhaps between 15 seconds and 2 minutes from seasoning a curry. Or a cake.
He likes thinking in staircases. He reckons that if he slips into a bad thought, it stays on that step, and he can step away. And avoid that one step when he walks down again.
It is a rather pleasant reckoning, so he brings it on with him as he ascends.
--
There might have been an undertone to everything. The prawns flicking their tails in warning, the jellyfish deliberately getting tangled in fishermen's fishing nets.
A whale singing his laments before there was a cause.
A cranium on the ocean floor, documented under coincidence.
A boat with too much water.
There might have been an undertone to everything, but everyone was too busy to notice.
--
He has somuchtodohehasnotimeforspaces.
He does not even have time for a name.
His mother always says she has so much to tell him. Applying logistics in a submissive manner, he replaced his name for a third-person pronoun.
This saved his mother 6 minutes per week per year, corresponding to the number of miles from Earth at which the stratosphere begins. This, of course, is a coincidence.
--
There had been a lingering dream, or beginning of one, of subsiding for days on 3 pounds of rice. Of living off only essentials. Of having enough and knowing what enough is. Of appreciation for each grain of rice without an impenetrable shell.
Shells were to become a repetitive motif in the setting. A perk for esoteric history scholars. Another prompt for a poetry pop-quiz in eighth grade. Her neice would attend this class.
Again, a coincidence.

The boat was weighed down with imaginary ocean breezes in collision with the external humidity.
Shells grinding shells grinding shells. Forming sand atop a sandy ocean floor. Eroding faces causing moist cheeks fourteen west nations away.
--
He drinks so much water, he sometimes thinks his stomach will turn out malformed. Like a political pamphlet floating down a stream as a sailboat. Extricating the communist idealism from auxiliary verbs into currents, into tap water. Like intricate spiderweb catching the smallest boy at school, and he breaks it.
But He knows that of all things he could or should be worrying about, this is not one of them. No, water is a constant.
Unlike sorrow. Sorrow flows. Sorrow ebbs. And sorrow returns again.
Always. In this way, sorrow is a constant. A constant change.
This is irony.
But not situational irony.
--
Situational irony occurs in Vietnam when the captain is snoring too loudly and everyone is feeling too safe.
When repetition is overshadowed by greater literary features.
--
When the narrator feels that she just isn't suspenseful enough.
When she feels she must communicate a purpose.
When she realizes, in the search for truth, that what we think we want but don't actually want is consistency.

Description
It ended with Vietnam, a boat, and too much water.
It was all an apparent example of situational irony, save the humor. The little hiccoughing laughter. The throwing back of your head and lolling with appreciation.
It was so simply structured, bordering on formal. One event after the precedent event. The time still ticking. The waves still grasping for the imminent introduction of sand. Like the sand turns to glass turns to jagged bottle-green litter on the beach, turns to sand.
Like one event after the precedent event.
--
Sometimes he feels the sorrow drinking water. He is 72.8% water, he is a human being.
He spends an approximation of 32 hours per week at the university, breathing and thinking and feeling biochemistry. Yet what he is looking for is in the neighboring department and was proposed as a topic by a top PhD student but turned down due to lack of reliable research material.
He sits 1,920 minutes per week, 27.2% research material.
He wonders how so much of him can be water when all of him is sorrow.
He wanders, perspires, but drinks more water.
72.8% is a constant.
--
At times, He suspects a scent of cinnamon in the stairwell leading to his apartment. Ground, perhaps between 15 seconds and 2 minutes from seasoning a curry. Or a cake.
He likes thinking in staircases. He reckons that if he slips into a bad thought, it stays on that step, and he can step away. And avoid that one step when he walks down again.
It is a rather pleasant reckoning, so he brings it on with him as he ascends.
--
There might have been an undertone to everything. The prawns flicking their tails in warning, the jellyfish deliberately getting tangled in fishermen's fishing nets.
A whale singing his laments before there was a cause.
A cranium on the ocean floor, documented under coincidence.
A boat with too much water.
There might have been an undertone to everything, but everyone was too busy to notice.
--
He has somuchtodohehasnotimeforspaces.
He does not even have time for a name.
His mother always says she has so much to tell him. Applying logistics in a submissive manner, he replaced his name for a third-person pronoun.
This saved his mother 6 minutes per week per year, corresponding to the number of miles from Earth at which the stratosphere begins. This, of course, is a coincidence.
--
There had been a lingering dream, or beginning of one, of subsiding for days on 3 pounds of rice. Of living off only essentials. Of having enough and knowing what enough is. Of appreciation for each grain of rice without an impenetrable shell.
Shells were to become a repetitive motif in the setting. A perk for esoteric history scholars. Another prompt for a poetry pop-quiz in eighth grade. Her neice would attend this class.
Again, a coincidence.

The boat was weighed down with imaginary ocean breezes in collision with the external humidity.
Shells grinding shells grinding shells. Forming sand atop a sandy ocean floor. Eroding faces causing moist cheeks fourteen west nations away.
--
He drinks so much water, he sometimes thinks his stomach will turn out malformed. Like a political pamphlet floating down a stream as a sailboat. Extricating the communist idealism from auxiliary verbs into currents, into tap water. Like intricate spiderweb catching the smallest boy at school, and he breaks it.
But He knows that of all things he could or should be worrying about, this is not one of them. No, water is a constant.
Unlike sorrow. Sorrow flows. Sorrow ebbs. And sorrow returns again.
Always. In this way, sorrow is a constant. A constant change.
This is irony.
But not situational irony.
--
Situational irony occurs in Vietnam when the captain is snoring too loudly and everyone is feeling too safe.
When repetition is overshadowed by greater literary features.
--
When the narrator feels that she just isn't suspenseful enough.
When she feels she must communicate a purpose.
When she realizes, in the search for truth, that what we think we want but don't actually want is consistency.