Deep into the untapped ocean lie the streaks of watery wholesomeness and an endless bucket full of chances and winning. Out and beyond the dead sea there were no happy choices, only one less grievous option than the others. Challenges and streams of dying fishes. Fishes away, fishes in, fishes home, fishes out. Except here the fishes aren’t swimming. Here they are kept afloat, swarming through the saltiness of one’s inamorata, the salinity that is a slanted likeness. Same fishes different strokes.

Here the aquanimals are drifting all the same, the waves rippling all the same, breaths thriving all the same. It’s some salty water but not my share of savoury goodness. I just wouldn’t dare tipping the ocean.



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