This will be the story of people and time. This will be the story of dirt that comes from the ground, laced in worms, thick with mucous and the density of rain, the slickness of dew, and remains on a window sill in the cooling air of fall or early winter. The dirt sitting without purpose, drying in the space of a square and glass. In the sun. This will be the story of it dying, drying, propped and no longer moist, no longer living, the worms having slipped away or dried to the sill, the unpainted graying wood, unliving in crusted loops of earthen paint, spills of once living. This will be the story of that. This will be the story of how that works or happens or does.
Bob, or Man on Boat