[ WP ] God of the dead river .

Tiny waves rocked the rowboat gently while an old man held his frail rod stiffly over the water. Lacquer clung onto the wooden handle in irregular flakes. The dull wood underneath shown through the faded coating, showing cracks that had smoothed from years of handle and rubbing. Atom by atom, molecule by molecule, the old man thought, the rod was slowly disintegrating, returning to the ether. 
 
 He inhaled slowly and raggedly. Each breath felt like a Sisyphean task. Maybe the noise is scaring the fish, the thought flashed across the old man's mind and faded away. He was not here to fish. He had not caught fish in years. He gazed out into the water and watched the sun sink lower into the sky.
