You wake up gasping, shivering, overarched, like a fish caught in a riptide. Sweat on your brow, moisture in the sheets, water spilling out of pipes, tumbling through the ceiling, dripping down the slick, shivering walls of white plaster.
You know that somewhere at sometime there was a rippling current of silver and moss that was tossed in the tides of an depthless, endless ocean that hugged the belly of the world and which today, right now, lies hanging above you, suspending in the dark.
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