The long and narrow bridge that spans the wide oval lake
of your life is made from the dust of men's skulls delicately
melded by last spring's meadow dew. It strains into form by
the rudely harsh, pressing bulk of the vehicles on its surface.
The calm, warm, lapping water beneath the bridge is an
undulating skin membrane that is always thinking. This
membrane, however, has no memory.
Beneath the membrane is a monochromatic city of aquamarine
little houses with aquamarine women whose pussies hide the
color of red, yellow-speckled apples.
Your mouth waters in ravenous fear and anticipation of
forgetting yourself on either side of the lake.