In the valley of my dead skin a river flows bearing liquid life. And over mountains it spreads and still it runs and drips and splashes.

Breaking the wall of my limited imagination. Waking me up. And as my hands climb and dive warmth springs between my fingers.

A morning like a cloud. A night like sleeping in the cabin of an angry boat. And the sun, the sun… Behind my eyes still closed.

A pillow made of all that greets my sleep such are dreams in these waters.