this one came in off your currents.
keep going. this wants a few paragraphs, not a line.
once it drifts, it isn't yours. there's no way back to it. it's given an address of its own — linkable, findable by anyone searching, and still carrying no name.
the water didn't take it. it's still here.
it's out in the world now.
the water is moving.
nothing has washed up.
the tide keeps its own hours.
words you're drawn toward
a pull, not a filter. things from elsewhere still arrive.
words you'd rather the tide never bring
these hold. nothing carrying them will reach you.
how fast the current runs
how often the water turns the page for you. still holds whatever is on the shore until you ask, and you can always ask.
how far you can see
bottles you float drift further out the longer ago you let them go, and once they pass the far water they're gone. this chooses how far you can see, so it also chooses how long they last.
the size of the letters
the light
what this place is
why there are no likes, no replies and no numbers here, and how the tide decides what reaches you.
remembering
only your own settings are kept here. nothing anyone writes is saved to a device — not yours, not theirs.