The first time, I was a baby. The second time, a baby, also. From the third to the thousandth time, a baby again. Then I was a bicycle. Ah my pedals, my brakes, the front and back. My uncomfortable seat they called Vlad the Impaler. I was left in the rain for a thousand years. There was snow and military invasions. A sparrow got an arrow in the head. Someone got cancer. Empty space was enclosed by sticks and was a house. A toddler watched a bug intently. The iridescent body, the slow crawl, the sound of supper being made. A boy unlocked me and rode to the sea where water explained shore. What speaking teaches. Speaking teaches.