Happy as a surviving goldfish moon, let us all shout the impossibilities to the tennis-ball sky. Let us know the castor oil and quinine and iodine and pianos and words that worry the thin bones in my soul. Bitter pine trees and sorrow. Broken drawers exposed with shame and broken secrets and broken boats all throw me down to impossibly low depths, where the only thing I have is my heart crying out, It happened to me, it happened to me, it happened to me, it happened to me, it happened to me, it happened to me, it happened to me—and God crying down his staircase, Keep going, keep shouting, keep crying, don’t stop, don’t stop your sorrow, keep it up. With every labor pain of your blaring sorrow filling the world with impossibility, you are stretching closer to the shore and safety, by biting and clawing the waves that keep you down. God says nothing is impossible with him, and I know that can mean impossible sorrow as well as impossible miracles, so I throw my sorrow like a javelin, and I fight like a diamond encrusted in lava when the mine is dark without flashlights. Everyone fights and cries. Everyone has to flee into himself sometime or other. Fight it up to the rooftops, where the fences that absorbed lightning screams and heat lightning tempers are scorched with the waves of determination, flaring from a part of me so deep and dark it hardly dares to call itself a soul.