Our love is the most profound and fabulous of all. We tremble, all together,
in a perfect crescendo and then explode all, yes, all of us! It is
beautiful. You simply cannot know, for such synergy is beyond you. We hurl
our passions out to tumble pell mell in the tide pools, dancing with the
krill. Rapture!
And when we work, we do so with grace, and regal dignity, steadfast, and
unmoved from our rightful places. All good things come to us. Only barbarians
with their ridiculous armours and ghastly teeth hunt. Gad. So demeaning.
All we must do is be clever, sensitive, and attractive. We wait,
outstretched and wide. The others fancy us lovely and delicious, and seek us out
to pay us court. To die at our pleasure they nose into in every crevice, rise over
every peak. We wave our petals all inviting and then nab the little fishes as
they wander right to our pretty lips, frantic to make our aquaintance.
Little fools.
We close up tight beneath the insistant pull of the starfish arms.
Great, hulking, bastards. No finesse, they. Doltish, pawing brutes,
always grabbing what they want and prying their desires out. They strut
and flex, but in the end, noone ever comes to them. Horrid, muscle-bound,
boorish freaks.
Oh, but we are a garden. We blossom out green, pink, and yellow. We are
petite. We are enormous. We bite. We sting. We sport the grandest family name
in all of Princeton. And our numbers are as unmeasured as the stars.
L'anemone dharma first, Sirs!
