I'm goner. Spit one last splash of lukewarm words out and I'm a solid rock on my bed. You see, I whisper words out to the world like the way you'd sing to a plant, silently so as not to be overheard, but hoping that a soft tune will make it grow. I speak to you the way a child asks the stars for his wish to come true, considerately, moderately, shyly, greedily. And then I shut my eyes.