A dis-entombed thought is swiftly fleeing into the empty white crevasse in the sky because it knows, knows with unwholesome certainty, that the crystalline octopus asleep in the depths will wake up and it will make unbearable sense of things. The aorta of the octopus refuses to take part, in part, because it does not even know if it exists or is only a silly thought in the head of some deluded child isolated in the most hackneyed way on an island with a horizon for company and a dead seagull for entertainment and a new friend in the maggot that eats the insides of the seagull because it must. It is and it feels the surprising need to continue to be. If the maggot offends, it takes pleasure in the offense, knowing that by continuing to exist it repulses all agents of gentility and delicacy. The child now feels quite at home on the island with his new friend, the maggot, and good companion, the horizon, because they both seem to make some good points about pointlessness and he looks forward to when the crystalline octopus succumbs to their illogic and slinks back into the sea and decides to become gelatinous. The errant thought however remains in the white crevasse, which it considers to be highly preferable over the new world of gelatinous octopuses, multitudinous maggots, and youngsters with fevered imaginations.

At night the ocean, seductive and luxurious, seeps into sleep-drifting senses. Dark perfume rises from its wetness with an autumnal ache. White hands beckon to the depths, gracefully proclaiming the sweetness of succumbing. Bare skin trembles at the first tender touch, which grows ever more yearning each step. Walk forward to consummate your lust for death. Ecstatic mystery enfolds you in its liquid embrace. Enfolding, unfolding the painful separating flesh. Flaying you with cleansing caress. Spilling you out, penetrating, while you penetrate its depth. Fully empty be filled again, transmuted to gold with glittering scales and tender gills and shining luminescence. Sink down to the bottom and slip through the door that leads to the bursting core, find the grain of missing time slipped there by accident, a priceless pearl dropped with much regret. Suck it inside you through your latent navel. Take it and fertilize the egg of the new world incubating in the thermal vents. Find there your limacine counterpart, where sun and moon, fire and water, male and female, calm and volatile unite, expand, consume, irradiate.