I tighten the line and I wade through the wake, then I'm tugged by a chariot plugged in the lake. A ghostship or maybe just motion sickness run amuck. "Sit still," says the tide, "and I'll pull you away on a ferry that's so snug and safe." The ocean's a coma of blue and I'll sleep til I slip out of view. Yet I must say, by far, this is one horrid trip; to be drug by a hook that is looped through my lip. And just as my last shred of consciousness slips, a face shoves its way through the fog. And I must say, by far, that finality stings. It's a loop on a leash that is hooked through my teeth. And just as my last silly compliment sinks my whole face is embraced by the fog.