Enamored with nothing he is saying, the
slippery sea slug always does his best to ignore the fast scaly
schools streaming over him, washing him out, like the barrage of
snicker bar commercials coming at you when all you wanted was to
watch a quiet video of the stars. Finding a hole to slip into inside a
holey rock, the sea slug sees an elaborate sculpture carved by aeons
of waves in the ancient belly of the earth, while schools of fish merely pass
on by in the background. He watches it all go by, wishing he didn't
have to be a part of it, laying down and staring into the dark
recesses of what he cannot see within the rock, a mirror to a vast
nothing inside his slippery self, at rest, absorbing all that is in
movement. Sad, never being able to peer truly in the direction that
would reveal everything. He wishes he could just finally be in an
ocean of sea slugs that weren't like fishes. Sea slugs who innately
know the need for slowness and space, supporting each other in their
intimate aloneness.
