She will continue to float along the river bed, all of those miles lost to the whispers of the flies that buzz a top the surface tension of the water, making love and dying. The river won't take her too far. It is a medium, an encounter with a moving road, where she has no real impact on speed. Watching is what she has to do which is fine, she has prepared for this for quite some time. Backstroke, breaststroke, all the strokes only end up nudging the trajectory and tiring her out, leading to less control. She knows that less control will lead to more loss and now that she has even less control she has to accept that as fate. For her, there was never a question of fate, only a question of the degree of fate. Fuck science, fuck philosophy, she lives in the tangible, the analog, the tactile world of the river bed. All it will take is a snag of branch to bring her back to reality, if only one would come along.

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