It was an unimaginable horror. The Superior Water.

I had been a man more beautiful than the rest;

it’s not a joke the skies turned purple and were gone; to a new light;

and I as still more beautiful that which counts whas my name; so I started rich. Count is rich?

I have memories of what should have happened; but never did. It was a form of attraction I craved but of course cravings weren’t desirous approved where we lived. So I wandered to a place of no rest. where my desire could be rewarded with other men. Like pennies we collected each other; and it was daft one day I decided on marriage; and the very thought completed eracted what was. He bled at the door on my arms. I was so horror. I watched as they turned to steal; another’s sight. I was gone before he existed. He was a prisoner for eternities.


Others wondered If I traded my soon to be wed; for steal arms; those were non-cravings rewarded there. I was too blight to comprehend who   se rewards they were. The horrors of blood in war and not love made me cry; I cried so much that I became most of water. I would hear the horror the mock of what gifts we didn’t share. me and them, the water users. They called me horrid names: slut, imbecile, repulsive wench. But never beauty. I craved what I had once been. I craved to be more beautiful than rest. But when I looked up at the place where I was no longer beautiful I saw a rest that I hadn’t seen there either. It was something I couldn’t follow; it was something that had never had craving. It was so much better than[ I ]; that it sparked hatred toward its Father. The more they hated its Father; they the farther they fell from its beauty.

It was the most flamboyant of brothers. In cow strips and dark pastures in joy vaults and salutes; it was never; I could I compete with it not. Nothing could. Hahahaha.

The death of my soon to be wed; never turned to be the death of my lover. Was I lucky. I didn’t hate the rest’s father. I guess as water I hadn’t yet learned to rest. I hadn’t learned what I saw as beauty was inferior. To yelps in volt patches; to screams of torture in prison camps; I wasn’t the favorite; and I wasn’t the underdog; there was no place for me but in an asylum.

I never wonder about the river that began to run through that prison. And on a prism I never visit that prism. A lash flick and not flinch for all yells.


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