Pace the floor. Steps—the turbine.
Imagine that, a floating cinder, sinking but still surfaced.
: You're out at sea, drinking it. Allow me.
: Ah, stay ashore, I will near it in time. For choice surveys the sea—And freely I choose, just as freely I am free.
Tilted, spun.
: You've turned by wake; is it you?
: Could it be otherwise?
: If blurred recognition speaks.
: Ah, but it does not. For the lake under knows under— The lake aside knows aside— The lake atop knows atop—
: And inside?
: Is soaked through.
: You've covered all, then.
: Yes, a craftiness unswayed.
