In a wall of foam, I am. The foam is so elaborate that its bubbles recreate my life in an instant of scientific bliss. Pumping out of my heart is the foam. It is the loving nature of the ocean blasting into the shore. It is the one guilty of producing the wall of foam out of the past. I am sitting in a wall of foam. It is lost memories diluting the force of the ocean into the vastness of imagination after being pumped out of my heart. Careless, I fall into the abysm that holds the walls of history. I empty my crazy mind from ridicule facts: of pain and of rain, so drastically that renewal takes my place. Death of the lament makes entrance into my arteries because I am the trail of life diluting into events I call facts. I become aware of the ocean that lives within my beats. Pumping into my heart is joy. I am the one who creates the foam out of truth. No more sitting, only giving. The wall of foam formed out of my heart because I was the ocean blasting into my lungs unaware that my heart was always living in bliss.