We are pretending to fall asleep. The light pollution sprays your room so much it’s almost like our own giant hagstone. We are not touching. You ask “What’s on your mind” and I say “no thoughts head empty” but I am lying. I am a squishy stinky liar, but you know this. I am thinking about the destiny of all things: I am thinking about crabs. Again. You are tired of hearing about the crabs. Their cowardly scuttle. Their claws bent and beckoning like Thanatos. When I reach my arms out your body becomes a shell I cannot pierce. I told you this, once, and you said to drop it about the fucking crabs already. I tried to explain: If God made any creature in its image, it must be the crab, and he must be impossibly vain to have so many different creatures return to him. At least five types of crustaceans have evolved crab-like bodies. You didn’t believe me, but the fact bears repeating: Five groups of creatures that have considered the crab and rearranged their lives accordingly. I understand. I, too, would like my bones on the outside, would like to crack only for the sake of being devoured. I want us to burrow so deep into the baseboards of the earth we hear only the rhythms of others fulfilling the silly little tasks of their lives. And how wonderful would that be? Just you and I, living together in God’s image. No thoughts, head empty, just crabs.