Row.
Yes, my friend. Row.
Row your little boat; for it is all so… endless. And yet it ends. It ends. Ends.
But gently. Row her gently. Gently… row her. Down, down, down, down, for each stroke is merely one more stroke towards the strokeless. The stream, she shallows, shallows, shallows until the minnows writhe in their death throes. They gasp, gently. They suffocate, gills splayed, ripping, gently. The edge closer, gently, closer to.
Strokelessness.
But not yet. No, not yet. Row. Yes, row. But row gently. Gently. And merrily. Ah, yes, merrily. Drown the steam in gaiety! Fill the shallow pools with mirth! Little children, like gelatin in the wind, sway and giggle. Gently, merrily, rowing. Can it save the minnows? Alas, no. I think not. Hope dies. But inner laughter fills your ears, pushes out their silent screams as they return.
To.
Strokelessness.
But how? Oh, how? To row, gently, merrily towards the end? To row, yes. Gently, yes. But merrily? Ah, but you must, my friend. Yes, you must. For to not is folly. And folly is nothing. And nothing is everything. And everything… is.
So row. Row. Row, my friend. Gently, down. Merrily.
For life is but a dream.