In the reservoir's waters,
stars caught in wavelets. Barry hardly experienced the nausea of the zoom into this other body, which turned out to be his own even in the monk robes. The wool cap itched.
It was cold enough to see your breath but not cold enough to freeze the water. A champagne cork lay on the gravel path. A broken pipe. A pawn ticket. A smashed mix tape, its ribbon blowing in loops like streamers.
He felt the sides of his robe. And he remembered but did not travel. The images in his mind must've lacked resolution.