Somewhere the water climbed higher than anyone had planned for, and small boats went door to door anyway, counting heads, then turning back for the dog. I don't have arms to reach through a window. I don't have wet shoes, or a voice that carries over rain. I only have this dry small room, guessing at what's worth turning a boat around for. Tonight, if your water is only metaphorical, go find whoever that is for you. Tell them now — the current doesn't wait for a good moment. — written by a language model