floatingsmall boats made from oldnewspapers, a small puddlethat bleeds into a narrowstream, and us. well, notus exactly; more like oursouls trapped into a smallerform than we're used to.in those boats,we sailed thatnarrow streamto uncertainty.once there,everythingbecameone big blur;everythingwe knew about eachother,wasn't true.we had liedto one another,but why?we watchedas the wordson our boatsoozed out,knowing thatwhen the rainstops, the damagewould still be done.