Looking out from my eyes is like staring upward through two inches of clear water. I'm on my back, floating but shallowly submerged. The barrier is transparent, and yet it bends the light. The clouds, the branches that reach out and flutter, the sun itself — all have a peculiar ripple at the edges. Though to me, caught here between the riverbed and the sky, it is not peculiar.
My blood is just beneath my skin, hardly even hidden. If it crept up through my pores, it would be washed away, a momentary bright tinge melting nigh-instantly into indistinguishability. Tears nestle behind my eyes — but in front of my vision, in front of the perceptual factory that assembles a story from whatever is "seen."
The water flowing over my face entices the liquids within. Still these substances remain inside of me. And I make more. I am a spring, a well-dug well, a fairy fountain that circulates its own molten stream. Perpetual motion before it stops.
Under the water, and under my skin, and under the blood, and under the silt and stones at the bottom of the river, in the deepest crevasse of the cave system that nobody has excavated nor even discovered, there are bones. My bones, but not merely mine.
Avant moi, le déluge.
All have a peculiar ripple at the edges.
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