Staring at the salted picture, a wave of remorse comes passing through,
sweeping in drenching the skin with the goo found in dark regrets.
This isn't the first time.
There is some familiarity with the stench.
Prickles, thousand of tiny needles now soak up the wave's salutation.
It may hurt but this punishment is just.
Five minutes of this rush is toll for the road ahead.
Looking down, the picture has changed.
The wave is gone.
May the crimson tide begin.
