Some day I'll tell you everything. How the waters advanced through the trees and approached us in our sleep. How we drowned with our heads above water. Soot can seep in through your fingernails and toenails and other vulnerabilities. Your own blood carries it like stumbling stones and deposits it into your stomach. This is called fluvial transport. It's not enough to make you sink, but your stomach doesn't know that.

There's a lot a gut doesn't know.

We couldn't make waters recede or navigate currents. The dip-gushes bubbling terra-cotta and gray through tangled thickets of ugly nameless things that annually bloom unremarkably.

I could tell you a thing or several about poor circulation. This happens when your blood-grain is cobble-course. Another way of putting it: your feet think they're walking on gravel. The blood itself changes color depending on its depth. We could all be anemic depending on our depth. We could be dumb, deaf, or blind depending on how we cross paths. We walk dead in our mothers' shoes, damned to love too late and in absurd quantities.