the waves do not embody elegance and they do not proclaim to be revealing. they move with the days and the nights' current, the inner trembling of their sources. they hence form what they become : a discontinuous flux, but coherent because everchanging.

you could say it's a journal. a recollection of seconds, amplified by five string serenades and miscelaneous diversions. two things remain : it is not fictitious, and it is not a pitiful cry for attention.