Many remain inside me, I say it, I say it again. Some sleep at night, others during the day, their beds are bunks in my mind on the silent boat, they wash themselves, one looking out through my eyes, and another from some finials in the kidneys with a view of my heart and liver. Some see, descending to the ankles outside with ropes, two unrelated images of the world, the sweet tranquility of my feet's fingers, the lower cliff of my belly they dream of. And one, the most mine of all, neither looks, nor speaks, nor sees. Behind the oldest mark of mine on Earth, under the vaccine on his shoulder, he likes to hide a life.