Your hands have seen the inside of a carborator. You took apart a hard drive and called it procreation. They've been blackened by grease and bloodied in your desperate attempts to clear the clouds out of your head. Seattle is our ocean, water all around to drown away bad memories and forget the sunshine of our conception. Rain can cover up scars, hurt, and spilled ideas, take them far away to different oceans. But never our own foreign lake, somewhere close to Mount St. Helens, or so we thought. Could our hands ever touch such a pure, uncorrupted pool as holy as the depths of your eyes? Would it wipe clean the slate, dirtied over years of poor decisions? Your cloudy eyes tell me different.