We’ve got this breaking dawn over the warm clear waters, we’ve got this ocean-going vessel made of solid wood. I’d been building it for years the way a snail builds a shell from calcium from his own body, and you brought the sails. We’ve got our larders stocked with dozens of nights, the rhythm of fucking, and two wooden barrels banded in steel, filled with small, poetic sentences that promise nothing, as fuel for our guts. The ship runs on wind- we’ve got enough of that- from the east! From the west! From the north! There is wind! If anything, there is wind. If anyone, we are the ones who have it. We own the wind! We invented wind! Our journey may be many things, in this wooden ship, but it will never be still, because of the wind. The forward trajectory of our separate destinies! We are lit from behind as if by rocket fuel. And as the warm waves rock us, and the sun moves over us, and the stars come out, and we grow thirsty, and only a little weary, but no less excited- we’re bent over on deck, huddled among the piles of rope, clutching each others’ hands, wondering where we’ll end up. The sun comes up again like it always does, and shines off the water, the waves calm, and there are fish, and birds, and everything that exists- and we only wonder where we’ll end up, and if a storm comes, we only hope that we might not be separated.