Context: Pond zix de Lemôn, a small, lily-padded fluid hole hidden just within the brim of the town woods.

I grip the edge of the skyward reaching diving platform with my toes, as I extend so high above the trees. Small figures roam the sand distant beneath me. They shine silver in their suits of armor, awaiting their chance at pummeling my feeble form.

Butterflies explore the expansive caverns of my stomach and diaphragm. They trigger a convulsion in my lungs which breaks my ribs. Then I lay back, yearning for relief from the anxiety. But, in doing so, I notice the chemtrails.. I notice chemtrails circumnavigating the sky, and my reflexes sit me up.

The clouds travel uniformly leftward, throwing off my equilibrium, while the click-clanking and rattling of the latter reminds me that I don’t have forever.

I remember what life was prior to November 9th of 2016.. when the 21st Century fright-in-shining-armor first tormented the streets of Fairbanks, Alaska -- beating the shit out of everyone slow or inebriated enough to fall prey.

I remember the feelings I had experienced only before the unsatisfied masses took inspiration from this lunatic: Comfort. Ignorance of the clock. Welcoming of drowsiness. Peace in drowsiness.

I sit cross legged on the edge the diving platform. I watch the inward-spiraling pink waters below. At the same time, I am well-aware of the aluminum-coated fury climbing imminently in my direction.

Zooming in on the vast oasis in front of me, I watch a charcoal black bloodhawk steal a baby squawker pie from its nest. Clasping the birdie between its prongs, the bloodhawk flies out above the swirling pink.

Mother loon pies chase after it. They howl cutthroatedly and spit out acid saliva bubbling up from their bellies. This behavior, I know from my educational year, happens only in lieu of fear of separation from their offspring.

The hostage-keeping bloodhawk ducks and dodges, being chased by the loon pies. He becomes trapped spinning in the eye of the cyclone, 100 feet above the plunging center of the whirling water. Three birds surround the windtrapped bloodhawk. They make eye contact with one another, rear back, and charge inwards. They wish to bash the bloodhawk’s head. But their simultaneous collisions counteract each other. And so, they inflict great damage to the bloodhawk, but each of them becomes trapped also with it inside of the cyclone.

Slowly, their acid saliva erodes the hips of the bloodhawk, detaching the creature's legs. The legs, alongwith the baby squawker pie (squawking), plummet hopelessly into the sweet waters.

Left are the parent loon pies, eternally bound to their child’s kidnapper and killer. Left are the parent loon pies, cursed to an eternity of treading air.

I am surprised by gentle cold steel on my naked shoulder. I turn my head, and I am confronted by a helmeted entity, who, in a surprisingly candid tone, sings to me a sentence. “If there is anything we have learned, in all my years, it is that, if you call me Daisy, and I call you Delilah, then the two of us will blossom beautifully in the Springtime.”

We blink simultaneously with both eyes. In the meantime, a parallel communication occurs between the two of us.

I, for a moment, look through the slits in the knight's helmet and into his yellow eyes. He, during the same moment, stares into my pearly blues.

Then, it is it.

The knight runs off the diving platform, and jumps headfirst outward as far as he can. Falling, he latches on to the birds who flap their wings desperately to remain afloat, and he pulls them down towards the plunging center of the whirling water — and toward their tasty demise.

As they fall, I feel the world warming, and I feel beads of dew appearing on my forehead. It is midday noon. The sun aligns directly about the eye of the storm. The water stirs the viscous atmosphere, and the viscous atmosphere latches onto the sun and turns the big star like a clock. As though on an amusement ride, the sun smiles and giggles, and says (on an up turn), “things are looking up.”

But terribly anxious comes over me. With a hot conscience and freezing feet, I pronate my palms. I paralyze time.

Now I am here, in my home office, staring through my skylight at a redfaced upside-down sun that growls at me as I gossip about all of this to all of you.

Frowning and upside-down, the sun says, “things are looking down.”

Yet I persist. It is my promise to myself that I will continue to persist.

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