Upon the ocean throne. A solitude unmarred. Drifting through sensory deprivation. I sail the seas of grey matter distracted only by the whites of waves and stars drug through the sky. Yet as much as I love painting horizons and freezing bald the trees come every fall what be the meaning? When I alone admire my work. Submerged further in deep meditation. Seated upon a throne withdrawn. Below me the churning stew of fin and tentacle. Perhaps through altercation they can be trained to serve the king in I. Rising above the placid shield an isle of mutation. As was destroyed so shall create until the scalpel has gone dull...
