Mommy once said the Earth was an upside-down waterfall, and that it poured green upon this land because that was its blood. And its blood gave itself to summon surreal beauty. The grass and trees were outpourings of wonderment, and the sky swirled in appreciation. But at some point the blood became contaminated, and it created a kind of life which suffered understanding its own existence. Now you know the Earth is matter; your head is an envelope of interpretation. There is no mailing address; you're picked up and dropped off at various sliding glass doors. Sometimes they open, but still you're always staring inside. What's an image anymore? There's always a lurking quality; someone or something you see possesses an unimaginable pitfall. Impurities in the glass dilute your perception. But you know you've spent enough time here when the stamps pile up, and your paper mind has seen happiness through the cellophane. "Mail me. Mail me. Mail me." "No; you belong here. You must stay." What is belonging but a state of stagnation? Your surroundings decay slowly, and you live long enough to watch the same people shed the same skin. They're going to change this time, you know it. But the molting is over, and the same face is staring at you. You have sheathed disappointment in the hilt of jadedness. Your sword isn't so sharp anymore; it swings and chops away, but the dragons have vanished. What is there to fight for? You're now living in a day-to-day tribulation, a quest of significant proportions, but have you ever seen the treasure you're fighting for? And what about all those other letters, the ones that used to draw maps for you? You heard them swimming on the palm of a wave, but they drowned in the shallows. If you could bring them back, you'd be an argonaut. But you're just an envelope.