The rubber duck floated to the top, stopped by legions of bubbles, iridescent hazes swirl like storms on gas giants as translucent spheres merge and burst into oblivion, a world of its own, a bathtub planet, without the tip-toeing shuffling akin to two kittens walking with little mittens covering their fluffy paws, that is, with no company of coherent rarefactions, and a little being is fascinated by the way things go, a giggle, a gurgle, an infant’s chuckle and glee, butter and saffron, sacred innocence, density of purpose, the weight of a new spirit born to be awakened.
A mother listens to the piano music that lands and nests and takes off again among the walls relinquished by her cellular device, and how the sounds of her child’s playful intrigue accompany the fingers’ glide, sweet the combination, a soliloquy of black mystery and blue skies.
Sinkside candles throw theater on the sides, a circus of spaceships and crocodiles, a march of ghouls with heads on spikes and women in cages, a band of acid parasites and mothers without faces, the waves, flickering, the capricious flames turned the small place for cleansing into a fractal paradise, a serious engagement between warriors nighted and the ambivalent self-destruction of life, yet unlike most critters her age, he embraced with fierce delight the incessant uncertainty, the audacity of the universe to think, know, itself as being infinitely creative and ingeniously bothersome.
Water absorbs gentle spontaneity, moves around and envelops the tiniest arms, the squishiest noggin, the silk that breathes, and caters to a foamy tectonics.
A longer reach with larger hands and worn elbows makes contact with the surface, a familiar sensation, the dancing contours of a comfortable presence, come unto nascent perception, and a bath is given, duty and privilege served, a holy moment shared between life’s cradle and its witness, a caretaker’s rite of passage.