“If you could answer me, shower, would I talk to you?”

The words fell from my tongue like condensation, slapping against the tile in echo. The thought evaporated from my mind only to surround me with sound as though it had pulled back the curtain and stepped into the shower with me.

A shift in the steam… Was it my own breath that had given the dark so much breadth?

Dark. It was always dark when I showered if I could help it and if it wanted to help me. It was a time to step out of the world and back into the womb, warm, wet, caressed by a time out of time.

The dark meant I had to know where everything was, the walls, the soap, the bong, and my own thoughts else I would slip, fall, and be lost.

Words had slipped and something had fallen with the water drops.

Was I lost?

Are you lost? How do you know I’m not speaking to you right now?

Came the shower’s phantom words fathomed from the cackling water on the ceramic.

My breath caught in my throat and I tasted fear.

Was it so or was I making it so?

The water drummed on, accenting the pounding of my own heart. In the dark, before the world, there was nothing but the Word, or so I had heard.

Now in the abyss of what I heard where was this Word?

Everywhere.

I look but I don’t see; I see but I’m not looking. Am I thinking without knowing, knowing without thinking?

The phantoms dance and with every movement the water’s pattern changes, thumping against me, bouncing off the fat curtain, clacking in the tub, draining with flourished slurps. My neurons pulse, their currents dictating mine.

Even though I am afraid I take my chances.

I accept the stranger in my shower: the power of my answer.

It is now my thought’s turn to peer beyond the curtain of sound that surrounds me.

It is said to me that the pattern always changes.

It is said to me that sound has infinite ranges.

It is said to me that nothing is said at all.

It is head change, to story our fall.

Order from sketched borders, languages spun to tell our tales of chasing our own tails. Divine flashes light up on the drops around me, or was that just me?

Stars.

Spark the dark and Mind draws constellation from them.

Worlds spew onto me from Showerhead, pearling off me. Words sink through me, flailing randomly. Chaos is inked; darkened sparks linked on a page. Meaning derived from meaning derived from meaning disguised for seeing divined from form and all designed for what?

“Shower, are you all there is?”

Dark it steams and hums this womb, giving what I answer I should choose and so I choose to ask:

“If you could answer me, would I talk to you?”