Every day he returned to the same spot. He knew it intimately but was not known there. The cold had driven the leaves from the trees and sometimes he thought he faded in to the pale sky, the way the water did at the very edge of his bleary vision.
He was a fisherman. In summers long days past he would enjoy the conversation he had with the fish, the playful tug of reel in the water, the dance between them. They would pirouette, scales shining in the sun, and his strong hands were their equal. But now it was quite empty, even when the lake was a seething mass, a cloudless storm beneath that surface, it was empty. There had been a dying in the water, and the fish were grown frenzied for food, food of any kind, so that they were changed.
Piranhas. They must eat each other alive. Sometimes they did.
Starving, starving for so long that it was a dull ache that pervaded him. He was able to avoid the lake for weeks at a time. But then he would have a dream, and the hunger condensed into pangs like knives stabbing at his stomach and it was all he could do not to jump directly in, mouth agape. He so longed to be immersed. But it would be no help.
It was all crapfish, and the lake was toxic.
There were plenty of fish in the sea, but he had no boat to speak of, and it had been many, many days since he had truly sailed. All the old ways had ceased working, diligent though he was in their practice.
Disassembly 