A gray whale overhears the sloop and the galleon, “I give you that forlorn continent by the wheel and the denominator. It lies there, without anything on, staying warm by the plume of linguistics.” Yes, something happened but not butterflies. Something thrills the equator, method or movement. In this corner she rides a cunning Egyptian cat. An escalator in the solution. Arcade color and animation. Not holding ends to meet until blunders build unconsciousness in a bottle or in a bowl. Most people read a magazine to understand the encyclopedia. The drone and murmur of conversation in the ocean, green can listen in a lamp. The fog is frozen, still. This might break to beseech the pink ear’s acceptance of an inflexible shadow. The psychic said it’s natural. Inebriated and inebriating on perspiration and saliva, each drop drinking and quenching each other drop’s thirst. The plankton listens close to the sway of the kelp, “Something consolidates to orient a tide of the non-self, our other organs. But your eyes are so long, a tooth from a bigger mouth. Something thrills the equator.”