the day of birth. From the moment we’re birthed, we thirst; for the waters we crawl from the cruel sands we’re thrust. The soul suckers that soar above where none can see swoop down to take their pickings from some poor turtle born retarded, the grains never stop dripping, encircling lacerated flippers while the sun scorches wrinkly once luscious shells, every breathe a heave, decaying flesh stuck behind a desk, merely a brain inside of a rat contained in a phone-shaped vat, ordering ipas on tap. You take this here needle and lay in the sand, or take this crisp sheet and get fat off the land. And yet we still yearn, and yet we still dance… We should all just eat a plant and behold… a fishbowl!