A fortune teller warns you of rivers trembling inside your throat. Looking into a well, you witness your last breath. Rocks flow inside your ribcage. Waterfalls stream from your fingertips. Holding still, you listen as closely as possible to the movement and slip of her lips. Like when she tells you how in death you will become water, how your mother believes you will come back one day, first as a fish, then as a tiger, and lastly as a butterfly. In the morning you dream of dead fish, a bird feasting on fins and gills. Gazing at the sky, half alive, floating on a lake, waiting for the sun and moon to lower behind these trees, you prey upon the prey you once were. Inside there is a hunger, a hunger for mercy when the hunter points his pistol between these eyes. This spirit caught in a steel trap, listening to the sound of a gunshot, the deathwatch beetle. Tonight wings have become a dart for sport, a ransom note, a joke, another game of reflection. Restless nature presses against windows like a star cast in the night, flickering on and off. These boys think they have captured some beauty; however, beauty may be defined. And perhaps you have betrayed yourself, slept with the earth one too many times, ripped the edges of the earth’s core open to find what is left over because what other reason is there to come back, to abandon and rescue the body at the same time, even when it sleeps, even when it drowns itself repeatedly, as it learns to breathe again.