The police reports were true. They were true because I wrote them. I wrote them with my fist and I wrote them with my blood. The rain poured and I ran. Many lines were crossed. The state line, for example, was crossed. I sat on a log silently. I took off my shoes without incident. The sun was wet with color and it bobbed on the waterline, drowning and diluting. I got up and looked down, at my feet, then the bank. A fish, of all things, approached and confided in me the moment before I dove in. It asked where are you going and is this my fault? Of course I didn’t understand it. I crouched down to look at the fish. One of its eyes had been dug out by a fisher’s hook. I told him he was the son of Poseidon and Thoosa that had never been born, and he asked what had become of his parents. I said that they were now my parents, so he asked me where I was going. Across the sea. If the wind dies down then I am lucky, and will wait for dawn, when I will craft my cocoon and lie down.