He was shoveling sand at the edge of the water, his heavy black glasses glittered with rain: "Don't you see how much like a woman I am?" Shovel, shovel. His throat was wrapped in water, and the water flowered with milt. Shoveler, are you eating the earth? Earth eating you? Teach me what I have to have to live in this country. And he, as calm as calm, though he was dead: "Oh,—milt,—and we're all of us milt."
Come to the surface of the screen with your piscine light and oxygen holes and press for moments against the page—as if seeking to pass through it. Make with the trunk of your body the third letter— in a motion move the ends of your face and caudal fin each to your right, toward each other — C. Toward the third hour on your axis— and in the same motion sweep your trunk back, tail beat pushing through the ninth hour, moving you headfirst in the new direction and off the screen— this movement follow with movement of more bodies, simultaneous, unselfconscious, aggregate— choral, co-created, a gathering of you in the mind—oscillate behind the screen like a wheel of bodies, a promenade—it we you he she— move through the water column, skins of bodies, similar, discreet—company, crowd, collection, shoal and plural movement of consciousness. Setting and set by the turbid water in motion, the new law of movement. Dissolution and coming into being. Appear as lights and images on the screen, your voices faded to an inaudible and drawn-out O! meaning here is the place we asked for!