Ocean of networks. Depth is in your fingers, on their tips. But there is no bottom, nor surface. There's that school of fish called advertisements. Eat some, most are poison. Sometimes you need some poison. But fear of death may just be simulacra of something. The big bang perhaps? Coming of messiahs? Bermuda Triangle? There's a wind along the shore. The sands are calm, refusing to feel air, its movements, but rather the notes from the ocean, the murmur of sirens, shadows without premonitions.