The toe would like to be a finger, the naked head wants to wear a chandelier not another hat. The pipe pines to be a pansy, the zipper dreams of cooking tofu. How long will it go on, this greed for otherness, the boomerang hoping to give a dying mystic a sponge bath, the novel dreaming of dipping itself in fondue? Never content these objects, never willing to stay in their own lane. Ditto the rest of us. Let us imitate the alpine lake, envying the shooting star for a few flashy seconds but relieved to wake at dawn with ten thousand trout in our wriggly mouth. Poor harmonica, possessing the soul of a tuba. Sad crucifix, wanting to do an internship as a shot glass before settling down in the vestry. Is life better as a soufflé or a conjure candle from Haiti? Never mind, soon you’ll want to be the other. Only one tastes good with cracked pepper, only one uses wax and fire to serenade the dead.