Sea-stream of Consciousness with Mary

I think if there is a god (s)he must be the ocean, ya know? this thing you can see and swim in and be fed from but if you fall in or get lost somewhere in its vastness you’ll just die or be eaten by creatures the likes of which are the true sources of the devil and leviathan. i think that god this super conscious all knowing never horny being - i think that we gather at its shores, on the curling back turned wave that laps sapient saline and sour onto our coast and the grains of our universal human conscious if sucking at it down to the bottom but it always runs out back to the big body unknown. partly known, but only partly. how many minds and pens and exploring ships have sought you out pushing ever further the boundaries of the map. your trenches run deep and your sulfuric spews change thermals and currents and the way of things. we as humans gather on the shore of the massive water-mind-machine-god-meta-alpha-omega. we bring our folding chairs and kites, content to just be beside it and hear its echoing surge. God, if the sea, must be share the human tendency to anger for we’ve been chased away, sand castles abandoned and stilted condos vacant. kites folded chairs folded blankets folded and quiet while god makes up his-or-her-who-knows mind. the storms subside and calm draws us back to him like those muses and sirens. Back we crawl across interstates and cheap gas stations and expressways and tollbooths - I fucking hate tollbooths but we come back, and we almost always bring joints and beer cans and liquor bottles so we can slurp ourselves into a primitive enough state to simply walk your morning beaches sit around a sea star night and campfire and look over at the sun kissed and salt stained body beside me, his jaw line sharp and orange as his eyes lose themselves in the fire and lunar lulling lapping of the tides. no shirt and lats defined as his arms hug his knees into his golden chest where flowers bloom with simple safety and our collective conscious knows that time and time again, throughout the history of humankind, man and woman have sat around a fire on the shores of the Infinite and, despite creed or origin, find safety in the warmth and light and limits such a scene can provide, and just breathe warmly into the neck of him, the boy with flowers in his chest and fall asleep at the lowtide and, if we’re lucky, be gently folded into the infite sea of god while we’re sleeping, the high tide our hearse into that which we’ve always sat beside.