of time and distance. This is the era of post-clog and present leak, this is the age of all-in and nothing to lose. The casualties become something to wager and everyone is gambling with their lives. There are no docks to aim for, navigation is negated by the shape shifting body of the leak lake leaking.
The ships in this leak are unmoored, preferring horizon’s horrifying endlessness. Their hulls displace the volume of this uncharted mess, ever leaking, ever clogged. Every liter of lake, of waking lake waters drown the solid world and the soil is easily boarded, undeveloped as it was. It’s the clogging that pipe in that building creating the leak at the center of this lake with these boats on it. And it’s the boats, S.S. Everyman, so heavy in this lake that rises and rises in reaction and in reaction the shore is taken under and the tides of this simple shifting tsunami are rushing to the foothills of the cascades and slapping against cliffs and clapping the continent into islands, snow capped peaks protruding.
Still the dripping gathering, dispersing, dripping, defying determined systems of measurement. Still the wagering of winners, only winners left at the end of everything with no end in site. It doesn’t take long to lose the memory of the clog in the pipe, the pipe that is leaking, the leaking that was a lake, a sea, an eddy and is now the vast and pulsing ocean. No one needs to remember the source of all this water to accept the waves and for the waves to crest in time with their source. No one can tell where the clog is still under all these areas flooded and under all these ships pushed out to open water. It is just so and all that is known.
Do you see now, how you’ve altered the geography of me?
26 | Psychopomp Magazine