I will bury you. So he says. The length of a lifetime and everything.

Dig through the furrows and what do you find? Potatoes and diamonds. If you eat them, they come out the same, and then you can bury them again, to feed the seedlings. Plow it all under.

I can't believe it's been two weeks since I put anything here. Two months, I mean; it feels like two weeks.

But it feels familiar and comforting.

Today I feel miscible. There is a dream in every undine of a calm and perfect sea (maybe it lived once in the mantles of stars) where impurity was unimaginable. The formless gods float tentatively over the face of the deep. It's such a fantasy. This undine is instead slowly swallowing motes of dust, bits of ash and smoke, dissolved gases and becoming ... what? Old? Wise? Wizened? Mud? It's all right. Certain things you can slag off, but certain things stay mixed. It's all right. You can still recognize the way you flow, the way things flow. The darkness, the pleasure, the wood. The silver politesse of your forebears. The truth is that one may also percolate through sandstone, collect oneself in the still, and evanesce. Don't forget that.