Surfboard. This words is waiting for me on the blank page. As to be big, it's big. Cumbersome, I'd say, how can they bring it around without not shattering it, I wonder? What else? Weight? I've got no idea but it must be light enough to be easily carried and sturdy enough not to collapse under a squatting man. Smooth? Yes,. Compact? Probably. Coloured. Plastic like when new, salty when used. A dance. The seventh wave. The ocean. Tanned sun bleached boys. The Beach Boys. California Girls?
Then I stopped. No other connection. My brain tried to give a blank glimpse at the almost intact page . No other connection. Between me and
a surfboard there's the same distance there is between whipped cream and a railroad, were it not for the fact that you can get some whipped
cream on a train. Not the same thing as a railroad, of course, but still a connection, there. Conversely, I've got no connection with a surfboard. What if I'd use separation instead of connection? What if I'd use the famous six degrees of separation? Let me see... No, no, it doesn't work. Between me and a surfboard only the void.