Drunk at a bus stop, the belly of K. asks about the wind’s direction and breaks the legs of the centipede that confuses travelers. 

It collects all of the world’s history into a matchbox  and tosses it over its shoulder.  

Eyes take the shape of a black locust leaf. 

Fingers transform into feathers and violin bows. 

The names of the planets change. The clock rewinds a few centuries, then advances a few minutes. 

That belly arrives on time for the noon celebration of the world’s destruction and preserves an eyelash from a sleeping woman for the new beginning.

That belly buys diving equipment before it learns the language of fish. It gets amnesia, yet it manages to preserve the memory of the rubber duck and the shampoo that stings the eyes. 

One should imagine the world as a town square with a pool instead of a navel and dive into it. One should leave their own skin under the tree of knowledge. One should become one with the droplets that the belly of the year splashes when it jumps into the pool.