There is a lake at the bottom of an snail’s upturned home, breathing and pulsating with the waves of ash that slumber in its eyestalks like vaporous nectar. Gusts of couplet winds rhyme across each exposed lens atop a beating cornea. The shell is muddied with serpentine refraction, following its own shadow in tormented yards. There is no sun or moon, only stars, and the stars beat down like an arid desert storm. Desiccation is the activity of today, and the curled up gastropod moves itself to contribute. Its product is known. A tire squeals in delight as it moves the feeling of friction through every pore. Brighten your tongue and let me have a look. There won’t be much more of a trail left once you find the entrance.