I am beached on my own shore, unmoving. There is weed in my hair and a certain sogginess about my fingertips. Pebbled. I lie still in the comfort of the dark.
The shush of the river soothes me; sweet, wordless caress.
Behind me, the Ferryman tends a small fire and has set my clothes to dry. I am wrapped in a blanket of enough. Thick and soft, enveloping. Enough.
Soothing. Written from the space between the rocks.