from my fingertips thrown rods. desire after the catch. it is empty and quiet in the water. a large extent, a great world. I still choose the lake around the edge. seagrass and junk, I call. they all are desperately threw back. I'm looking for meat I can bite in. that melts down inside the neck throat. converted and reorganized in my blood. complementing me with energy. as any other external function. I have the wrong rod, wrong fingers. wrong desire or lake. I will continue until I catch it, I wonder so my desire.