The first night was the silence, we were as the outcome, that: The silence.
Then, the emphasized rush to insistently mutate came
emphasizing being the plants
trying to belong to the water
stealthily insist on living inside any wild animal.

And with discreet groping, even to be the coldness.

To bet on not being the world's inhabitant, nor on time's absurd and overwhelming rush
to cling to being the clouds' amorphous form, to be the howls that dissipate in their own flight
to unleash the imbalances, to rip out ourselves from the gravity
to track another kind of thirst in the rain, from where the wind itself assured me it comes.

And the need for fires, overrun me.

I wake up tangled with a varied morphology that came from many different origins.
From many different lives.