I'm So Forlorn

There are not enough beavers in the river to chew them up. I'm so innocent yet I cry, cry, cry. There are not enough fish to fertilize their flesh, there is not even enough seaweed to inject their matter with youthful minerals. They circle around and around me. A merry-go-round of dross. What am I to do? Do I watch the dross, continually twisting my neck around and around and around, like an owl in the night, until one of the pieces of dross is altered? But what if it never is? What if they're simply eternal dross? Would my life, then, entail watching a series of pieces of flesh in a river that won't ever decompose? When dusk and dawn merge into a timeless, eternal moment; the immanent pole-star? When all traumatic events cease, and my timeline shoots away from the hard disk that birthed me? Am I supposed to be entertained by these pieces of flesh? Am I supposed to feel emotions towards dead pieces of meat I never made the effort to get to know? I can't blast off in a rocket, can I? No. But I won't accept this. I know what I'll do. I'll call all my turtle and rabbit and fox friends. I'll tell them to gather all the pieces of flesh they can in trash bags and scatter them around the forest. Then I'll host a banquet, full of pity, distraught, about how I ordered them all to kill a part of my very self.