“Why talk at all?” the watermelon seems to ask. It rests on the summer picnic table, pregnant with itself. Globous taciturnity. In a strange universe where words can speak words, taciturnity mouths eternity. Like the vast majority of existence (the exceptions being us and certain other animals) the fruit’s only engagement with being seems to be this mute furtherance of itself. Furtherance in time. Furtherance in space. Mute furtherance is everywhere. It is like the metallic flags of car dealerships. I can’t look at a watermelon and not think of it. The comfortable muteness of everything. The way it is all going further. O Unlexical Watermelon, what is your secret?