We are mountain fog and misty thoughts, coming down incessantly.
Coming down from atmospheric heights, pure perspective miles above our surface
Lending gravity to the weight and fall of each drop.
Aiming for water, not land.
Hoping for ripples, not craters.
Soluble missiles, dead in the water, muffled communication.
Sound travels through blades of grass and echoes across asphalt quicker than swamps and silt.
So we aim for water, not land.
Drain the lake or walk on top.
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