If thoughts were a thing that happened.

Feb 20th, 12:50 p.m.
     I am laying in a pool of cold water, the sky is dark and I can feel warm stagnation lifting off my belly and creep endlessly into that great void between me. Next to me is the only thing I could ever count as a possession: a floating plank of cedar. Now, as sometimes happens, the wind comes and brings all the smells of life I know but can't remember: hard sweat, genitals, perfume, smoke, alcohol, library pages, and always the cedar. The wind makes the stagnation lift a little more off my belly, and sometimes I try and catch some of it back. I lift one arm and it gets a little cold. It feels different. I let little beads of my own vapour and wind saturated smells get caught on my vestigial hair. I let the smells soak in on my skin and then drop them onto the cedar. I can keep them longer like this before they fade away. On the luckiest days, comin' in on the tail end of short zephyrs are these little birds of light. You can almost touch these little sparks sometimes, but mostly you just try and squint and see what you can make of the shapes in those lines and feathers. They bring just enough warmth to quickly dry my skin, and the little beads of water I sometimes leave on the wood turns into saltstains. The cracks in the dead water beads resemble the birds. At least I think so 'cause when I look at the plank it's all I see: those smells and the birds in the passing shapes of life so far away, written out in my dim, salty cracks. So far, I am happy just like this. There are days, though, with no birds, and no wind; days where I just feel the immeasurable cold blackness underneath, and I find myself, in the slowest touch, sink.