When last I basked at the Reflecting Rock, Seamother intimated that I might not be merely a quinundine, but a septundine, subject to seven watery influences instead of just five. It could well be. The two influences she suggested were Change and Empathy, neither of which are terribly radical.

But one of the already canonical five is Lunacy, as I may have mentioned before, and today has been spent spread out on the floor, crushed and subject to Lunacy's wanton toyings. Well. Maybe I ought to (am forced to) give up each day of the week to one of the seven influences, and Friday is the day for Lunacy. (You'd think Monday would be the day for Lunacy, since it is ruled by the Moon, but I don't make up the rules. Friday is ruled by Venus, and it is maybe my undine's raison d'etre that makes Friday the day of desperation. Of devastation. Either I or you, never neither. Better me than you, kid.) Kid! I am quite sure my poisoning last week hasn't helped. My thumbs have crusted over, the rays of flame along my arm have cooled to a distant stiffness, but my heart and eyes continue to feel alien. Possessed, even.

So again Friday is given to wandering, to chaos, to frenetics. I passed under the gaze of the Chasm God, and his reproach made me realize I'd been avoiding him. I've been avoiding everyone, everything, the truth of my circulation, my lymph. I do well until the spiteful need upends me. Slaughters me and spreads me out as offering. Returns the visions of trepanning and blasts. Slick talons of smoke curl under my eyelids and immovable skull joints. And may Seamother help whoever might approach me when in one of these states.

But it's only for a day. By the time the sun rises again, everything will have slept in its rightful place, like a knife in a drawer.