There is no order. You know there is none. And it is dense. Blue thickness laughing at your blind faith in the frame, or in the manipulation. The landscape is not the ecological back cover of your city, it is just a different sort of war. Another technology. The engine you do not understand, the one that makes you surrender. Violence you have not perpetrated. And it ignores you. You share with mysticism your need for metaphors. You want to believe the crack defines you. You aim to worship the tectonic crack, the crack’s infancy. You have faith in the crack. You pursue the ramification and what it signifies. You flee the whales, the beauty, the subjective. And yet the crack contains a swinging, a distraction, some sort of dance. In the crack there are nerves agonising towards the horizon. There is almost everything you are running away from. Then you go and do that very human thing: pick a cloud and ignore everything else. Fencing the sensible. Adoring water and its reflection. Touching the cold with your fingertips so as to be able to say: it is real, yes, it is real. You have chosen the earth and its punitive embrace. You have chosen something that has not come to be yet: the delay. Or something that has not stopped coming: the wave. Those move you towards the extinction or the journey. All sea is amniotic.