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He stares at the gruel of sea. There's no one else on this rusting hulk, and he feels a surge of bitterness every time he catches his flesh on a rotting edge of iron. It has become pointless to strive for memories like duration, destination, meaning, and his mind struggle sfeebly as he gazes at the horizon. Or where he assumes it should be; it's hard ot tell as the sky curdles with the same colourless texture of the ocean. Perhaps it's all the same -- he has a vision of his hunk of metal suspended on the inside of a bubble, water curving overhead everywhere he's not looking. He would dive and swim; any direction would bring him back to that distant cork, that bobbing toy, that sinking, creaking shit-pile. A giggle bubbles through him, bursting on his lips with a film of spit. |