Forever mine, forever yours, we always have a state of transit between us and our breakthroughs, outbreaks, whatever you want to call them, those typical bursts of exquisite time unfolding through the mantelpiece and unimaginable pincushion sadness, tied together with grief and an inordinate number of pineapple chicken beak massacres.
It’s not as though we lose our typical digestion when something of this magnitude pops up, but there’s no telling the typical dragon-like experience necessary to be taken seriously around here for a change. If there were any kind of scrutiny to be had, scruples to withhold for times when tile melds with rock melds with bedrock melds with molten core, then we’d be in a different boat entirely.
But as it stands, there’s not even a raft in play here. Forget about paddles, there’s no way we can even keep above water long enough to contemplate navigating a body of water. We might be naturally buoyant, but there’s no reason to believe that floating like a cork for six hours is a given, even in the fairly gentle salty brine.
WHARVED 