Sea Monster (Baby?) [February 3rd | 34/365]

The echo of my baritone call
is the only sound I know, the stream
of bubbles from my snout and the occasional
glimpse above the surface--always, always the same
crown of lush hillside trees--the only sights, and for smell
only the seaweed on which I have come to feed, and so each day
feeds back into the last, and I exist on a lonesome mobius strip, which means
that I have no read on my age, I might well still be an infant, and
no one ever bothers me. I don't even know what it means
to be "bothered." I don't even know what it means to
have a job, or mom and dad issues, or
a bad marriage that ends in divorce.
I am writing this telepathically.
Strange forces are telling me
to get access to "the internet,"
but I am ignoring these forces.