I follow the sweep of my fingertips with my imagination.
The turnaround feels closest to my only spacewalk; my feet reach down for the bottom three yards away, what stretch; they feel well planted on the wall. Knees push.
The breath boils out of this face.
Velvet strokes as the glide attempts unity.
Only here, can the true meaning of submarined be fathomed.
Rolling the body large and slow off the wall, spacewalking, shooting streamline tight and fast. Soaring ten feet aloft the firmament.
No human experience is akin to immersion in the clear body of water.
Man cannot fly.
¿Why not swim?
Is that your beat-heart I sense in mine. I feel the motion of your feet as we pass. Shadows are unvised; there’s mine in triplicate diminishing; yours is a hint.
On the blue at ten.
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