The blood is in the water. But the water is warm and the blood is my own and when you bleed out slowly the feeling is earnest and soothing. They say sharks can smell the sweetness of injury from miles out to sea. I can’t envision them motioning a snout to the currents, sniffing like caricatures but I can see their shadows from above, casting sleek shapes along the imaginary seafloor. I sense them circling. Like ghosts. Like memories. Silent as knife blades.

Another thought about sleep.

Fish.

Fish sleep.

Only half a brain at a time they say.

But humans know FA about animals.

bee brain

There’s a bee in my head.

I can only speculate as to how he found his way in.

I feel his little footless appendages.

Rummaging around.

Reading vibrations to see deep into the grey custard suspending my thoughts.

I imagine his expressionless face.  

A helmet made of eyes.

Anticipatory.

Hunting, restless. Agitated. Searching.

Moving so jaggedly, so constantly, his body hums a note.

The sound of desperation.

Flowers developed overtime into blooms to drive him wild.

Luscious, vibrant, pungent, velvety specters.

Is it painful, like hunger?

Is it intoxicating like lust?

I pity him.

Constantly occupied. Never satisfied.

His existence is a curse.