Drip, drip, drip.
Salty streams escape from wineskins overflowing. They bulge, threatening to break under the heavy load carried within their dark recesses. Leathery, warm, and grimy, they've stood the test of time, space and beyond.
Light breaks in, past the rusty, oxidized coat. Past the copper that lies beneath the iron prison I risk my privacy for. Past the layers of color, the oases in which one once found beauty. It passes by, reaching far into the deep tunnel, but it hits nothing, for the something one expects to find is hiding around a corner. A thing so small, that the laws of relativism would never consider let alone adhere to, an objectionable cause. It attempts to explain, colliding and passing and spinning until the point when one might say, "I see!" without feeling any nosier. Maybe only then will one truly be at peace.
But for now, the saltwater has left.