You know, this ship has only known the slow flow of sand for too long. It yearns for the swell, to feel the slice of keel-knife swift and purposive through that meniscus between worlds which is one of its trinity of homes. This is not a feeling her self-named commander is familiar with, not anymore. It has leaned against the larger leeward piling of this other sea which is that of smashed rock suspended in air, which loosens its hold as it folds and curls against this charred body.
It is not for no reason that our black carapaces are adorned with eyes. This is not some expression of savage and ignoble anthropomorphism, no. We need the eyes for with to do the seeing, the light collects there as the wind fills those sooty sails.
As one of my eyes is pressed hard against the driest dunes, so too the right eye, though unscarred, is fixed on that makeshift surrounding it, all fences and leather-hung enclosures, which has traveled through the breakers of strange ages between temporary shelter to become the very palace of this Prince of Nothing, this dark sulk of a thing which so often sits out the evening's eviscerations staring at the edges of its drinking-cup instead of the horizon which is where the dark water grows light and lifts its volleys of pearls against the car of Hesperus, delaying the blind times if only a while.
