Floating feathers flutter, fall on my face, in my hair. They are damp, these feathers, licks of wet, little and little they fall and evenly as flakes they soak me. Their dampness is at once ancient and fresh. This falling and licking and falling has been going on for a long time already. My skin has been thickening like a pushed river for a long time as well. I don’t want to feel my skeleton any more, just the river rushing. Some version of the eternal is happening to me, has always been happening, however one says such things as the chill clings and melts and one goes lovingly from walking through woods to being all surface, only surface, clinging to the sensation of the cold licks, opening into them, flying like a runaway kite out beyond the trees and time forever and ever.