One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven and the thirteenth. Myself. And the boat started moving. Gushing chewing the water below. The cow strapped onto the shore wanted to tear the rope of torture apart and move. Like a test charge on an electric field intervention. The dead bodies of the children buried under the shore wanted to get up from the grave and move electronically. I think that I am not disturbing them. They still want to see. They whisper to my ears. They want to see the same old fucking beautifully lonely evenings. The movements of the water near the shore. The view from the bridge. The horses eating grass. And smell the excretica.  They want to even if they complain. Even if they shudder. Even if there is something called depression. Even if there is something called regret. Even if something out of the window called frustration. Even if they see darkness. Even if the weather is sultry. Even if coldness surrounds. Even if there is nothing. And the entirety kicks me in my asses sending blood which I can see moving up my tunnels. The hairs rise. And my under arm excites me.
I see the rising of a white wave up from the greenest pond. The wave is beautiful and makes me cry. The steps from green to white. Each quite discrete yet hybridized. The steps which makes me cry. This cry is somewhat different. 


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