Once there was a poor boy.
He would wade into the creeks and lakes about his house, crossing the streets and roads, in search of newts and toads.
He happened on an axolotol, stuffed inside a glistening bottle.
He set it free and watched it run, and caught it again for some fun.
Its skin was night and cold and stygian, and the boy growing bold licked the amphibian.
He saw the world and saw its sun, and saw himself and his wife's son. A different world and different earth, a great mist between the turf.
And further out and further still, world's uncounted.
Mountain forest hill, oceans and seas surmounted. And then he saw his little world and all its feature, within the body of tiny creature.
And all of that and more in there, beneath thin skin without a hair.
It called itself Old Slick, its voice repulsive, the child grow sick. He dropped it and began to cry, for what he saw was meant for I.
The little thing soon wandered off, while the child moaned and coughed.
It crossed the street and shuffled its feet.
And as it dodged the bikes and cars, the child cried out "ITS FULL OF STARS!"
It wanders out there, unbound now.
And when all ends you know how.