A gray lake winds itself across my eyes like spilt ink in my water glass.
It drops through the cliffs and down to snaking vegetable, oily and fibrous.
The crust forming a grave urchin’s tower down to the floor of the lake’s floor, where a dreadful dance is happening between the rise and fall of his breathing and the melody of the water against the shore. He stares out his telescopic window and mimics the back and forth. And the lake mimics back.