These hills are old. I pull years of string out of my throat. I rest my head against your belly. This is mostly your fault. The years are rivers. The rivers are old and they flow down between your shoulders. We thread like string between these hills. We fuck and we fray and we spit. I am worried. You say THESE HILLS WERE MADE FOR RIVER. You say THESE HILLS WERE MADE FOR GOATS. My string was made to make you warm but you are never warm. The windows are fogged, but not for the right reasons. This river runs alright. I say EVERYTHING IS MOSTLY YOURS. I say EVERYTHING IS MOSTLY YOUR FAULT. This river runs all night. We’re going to drown between these hills. We’re not going to sleep very well. You don’t say anything. The river flows from your mouth.