Lines of water, water lines.

Dip my feet into the stream of consciousness to alter current and obsctruct flow, feet like mermaid angels eyes bear glisteningly dilated pupils. Water is funny and water is live and let live like laremy and poetry.

Few lines will ever be as clear as the water line, knowing when you're above or below, the line as seemless as its own transition.

A young boy sits in the bathtub of white porceline with the shower running and the drain clogged, slowly creating and tending to the water line. He will raise it like a child without name, tending to it and fostering growth so that one day he will look back upon his life and realize that he never noticed the moment when the water passed his neck and mouth and eyes. I've been drowning all these years, he whispered, as the water rushed into his lungs.

He then died and sank like a ship, and the water was all around him.