There is the bright wet thing that I know so well. I like it so much, the way it falls on my hands and down to the hard brown place where I put my feet so I could stand.
           I like it so well because when I smell it, I know that I would not be hungry for much longer.
           The bright wet thing mixes with the bitter smell of salt and fear everytime, when someone gets close enough for me to touch. They always have this odor with them, people. They look at me with wide eyes and reach back to me with this familiar smell. It always makes me hungry. Sometimes so hungry I reach right back with my hands.
           Then I could hear the screams and the words from their tiny mouths. I found out the best way to keep them quiet is to put my teeth on their neck. The salt and fear smells stronger there, and more of the bright wet thing comes from there, darker in color and pouring out in streams.
           Now I can smell the bright wet thing, hot and sticky and tickling something at the back of my head.
           I try to forget that I am hungry. I try to forget the bright wet thing.
           I try to remember what was it that made me think of the bright wet thing.

There are those light cool pools where I used to stay in for hours.
           The bright wet thing is never cool. Always hot and sticky. Not like those light cool pools that soothe my body. The bright wet thing soothes my stomach, though. Especially when it comes with the harder flesh, bite after bite.
           All I could think about is the bright wet thing when it would pour over my hands and those light cool pools. They take turns in my head, in clear flashing pictures. Heat and no heat, fear and no fear, salt and no salt, my stomach and the outside of my body, the harder flesh and the coolness.
           I wonder what I need more.
           I wonder why I think so much of the bright wet thing, now.