Thoughts on Punctuation

The pages of his notebook, worn from years of use,

yellow on the edges, the edges now blowing in the warm breeze,

and salt, true sea salt from the sea,

spreads in ripples across the perforations and dots small dunes,

quizzical patterns forcing him to ponder the lines and the writing on the page;

those pages are the ones I am talking about,

those pages flutter softly now,

and they have since he arrived,

and they sit on a small wicker chair,

and every line is dotted with a firm period.

The Conquistador's Journal

He closed the book, and tightened his eyes against the highlighted truth.
It had not always been this way, he thought.
I had not always been this weak.

Where had the time gone? He wondered as he drove away.
Gravel flies far in cold air.
Maybe he could fly far.
He's already cold, the difference between now and then seems forever, seems distant.
He's around the corner now.
He's down the road.
The houses whip by in a whirling blur of subatomic light, blinding.
When will his vision recover?

A map lies crumpled at the floor.
Notes dot the edges, trace winding paths that lead to her heart.
He can't reach for it, can't stop. Tears blur at the corners of this single-sided, two-dimensional world.
He won't flip over if he reaches the edge.
He won't stay stuck, like a magnet on the kitchen fridge.
He'll catapult off.
He'll stop being, and start not being, and the before he knows it, the race is over.