Monkeys Can't Swim

It was from a desk that, after jotting through a night upon the back pages of Gogol’s journal, I saw the first light of the fourteenth day of a second month. The rising sun sprinkled bitsy golden spheres upon the surface of the Zenisee, like Sardanapalus’s magical marbles sailing upon a bath of perfume. That fluid mass undulated to the rhythm of a heart. Silver stars flickered from its ripples and floated to a window. Limnades may have rode, sparkling, upon their wings. A background cushy snow softened distant mountain peaks and shone incarnadine in the virgin morning glow, a velvet pillow propped behind a sea of honey. And closer to a pane of glass, from grey vines hung wholesome grapes that gleamed a hue that matched the snow, like rubies from a silver broach.