There is a place called Random Lake in Wisconsin. My mind wanders the perimeter of this body of water in hopes of seeing things emerge, such as a balloon, a frying pan, maybe a rocket, all of the atoms that make up your being; I am being irrational, I know. There is no better place to be groundless than right here. Is there a wrong here? Can the very place you find yourself ever be wrong? I stretch out my legs on the land and feel uncomfortable.
Inside the canoe there is a locket. Can you see it? Picture it being precious and rusted and about to split open. Inside the locket is a natural outflowing of love on the left and a photo of your spine on the right. Let's drop the locket into the crater and let it sink. The sun is about to rise and play tricks on our eyes. Has the crater cracked open? Is the yolk being released?
We are broken down by processes. We stay sedentary. Sometimes something will come along with the sole purpose of shaking us up, but we remain frozen. We forgot to answer the question of where the ducks go in the winter. They are beneath us, they are starving.
To let you go like a stone or a locket or a balloon or a rocket would make this decay bearable. But you are my parasitic barnacle and I can't shake you if I tried.