The hook bit deeper, pulled harder. The voice wouldn't stop (wouldn't shut up, he thought, somewhat unkindly) and now it wasn't only an itch and a hook, it was a countdown timer.
Ticking.
Phil-ip...Phil-ip...Phil-ip.
He drowned the ticking out with motion and disarmed the countdown timer with wonder and the ground fell away to a river and so he became the river and-
Philip!
-he flowed and he felt all the life teeming within him and he was just deciding which fish he wanted to be but-
Philip! Listen to me!
-the hook had him now (perhaps thinking fishy thoughts had been his undoing) and he was cast onto the bank of the river and now instead of thinking only warm, dreamy thoughts and feeling exciting, light dreamy feelings, he felt:
Guilt.
Fear.
Sadness.
Loss.
He needed to get moving again because he was waking up, and waking up was:
Guilt.
Fear.
Sadness.
Loss.
He made to leap back into the river but now the line was pulled true and the hook deep inside him permitted no escape this time. He was being reeled in, brought to account. The faster he was pulled the heavier he became until he couldn't even imagine being the wind or pollen or a poet's idea of Spring.
He felt thick and solid and slow and...
"Philip?"513Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuc6V4jk04Y
