Oystercatcher Tide Pools rock lobster

oysters. she's heard the word before, and now she has an image to connect to them. interesting creatures. it is hard to believe they are edible, though she will reserve her judgment on their quality for now.

"they're little to sustain on," she agrees, obscruing whether or not she is also, to borrow his term, a 'sea wolf'. hamartia is not, at any rate, even if poet may have been. (and was poet even? does it matter now?) perhaps she is simply noting her observations and not commiserating at all. perhaps it is irrelevant either way. less irrelevant, "govinda," the woman repeats, studying the way the light in his eyes seems to momentarily die. 

"i am hamartia," she returns, unaware of the subtle irony in the two of them sharing their new-false names. neither of them need know the truth. "i .. make no home," hamartia decides, unwilling to admit she has been here before, at least not yet. traveler too is not quite right; she is not a cosmopolitan, she is without. "and yourself?"