(found by a weird-shaped guitar)
You know, I don’t know. I don’t know, you know?
I keep dreaming of cliffs, standing on cliffs and looking out over rivers, flowing with water and fish, swimming through water, flowing through rivers. I keep dreaming of fish and water and rivers. I keep dreaming of rainstorms, falling droplets of precipitation, crackling bolts of lightning and warm cups of lemon-mint tea.
You’ve heard of it, surely. Surely, haven’t you heard of it?
But the kettle boils over because, of course, it always does. The water comes roiling down off the cliff and plummets into the ravine so deep down below. The fish, oh, the silvery, shimmering fish toil and toil so fruitlessly against the current, suddenly swirling current at the base of the tragic disaster. The rain comes pouring down, drenching all forever down, soaking straight through the rain jackets and filling up rain jacket pockets. But I don’t need the pockets. My hands are wrapped around a cup of lemon-mint tea.
Really, it always does. Doesn’t it always, really?
What time is it, and am I still dreaming? Haven’t I always and forever been dreaming? Why, of course there is this question, is there always so much water – falling from the sky, pouring down off the steep side of the cliff, swirling around all the way down there below my feet? But do I even like fish, let alone sushi? Why can’t I ever find that perfect temperature (for my lemon-mint tea is now and suddenly just much too – much too, much too – tepid)?