After feeding your goldfish, you read that salmon can smell the scent of their birth river waters in the vastness of the sea and then follow it, as when one wakes up in the morning and follows the scent of coffee someone has made for them to the breakfast table. In this way, salmon can return to their original home and there die as if a circle has been drawn closed. But your goldfish cannot go back anywhere because it lives in a square fish tank inside a studio apartment. Your goldfish is twenty years old, an old age for a goldfish. Its scales are red and, at the same time, not red anymore. You know the feeling of fading because the years have also grown on your skin like seaweed. Sometimes, you think about your goldfish’s death and how it will first float and then sink. How you will not tell anyone about it because no one is there to listen. You will simply throw the goldfish’s dead body away in the trash. You have no money for a funeral and no land for a burial. When you die, you will first bloat and then shrink. You will tell no one. Only the landlord – after receiving complaints about the smell that has wormed its way into the building and is growing louder by the day like the wail of an old mother – will eventually get himself into your apartment. At that point, the smell will tell him and everybody else that you were there, that the goldfish was there, and that you are now swimming upward toward the beginning.