The landscape of my body cannot be bought. Anyway, things change. One day I am a snake, another, a bird in flight or a golden stone. Today I am a pool of tears. A man could drown in me or be baptized, hit his head against the rough sides and sink into perpetual loss of consciousness.
Amnesia is the disease of the exiled.
Personally, I never forget a face, that's why my voice wanders in search of hobo souls. Some things even death cannot heal, like insomnia, or never knowing where your next proper grief may come from. Each day I go down to the banks of the Sambatyon 1 to measure iron against stone, not brave enough to begin or end my life. I never loved Jacob. Lie down in a cool grave and denounce the past fifty centuries, drink in the river's din, glide with angel fish, mimic the slow motion of sea grass and in the end rise to the surface like indefatigable breath, or live backwards, devolving, reborn in the eye of another terrible maiden.