i've formed a shell around myself, like you, to prevent the outside from coming inside. i am very cold. i adore the sea spiders. i adore the beauty in what i do not know. but i know what i am supposed to. i am very cold. 

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i want more than 10% of the floor. i want more than 10% of the human interaction, the truth of the universe that i'm looking for. 

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primordial drive, wet by circumstance. water breaks, and so do you. i know how to swim. but do i really know how to swim if the pressure will shatter the shell i've created? tiny bits of me, absorbed with the krill, absorbed with the matter of the dead who tried to swim deeper. there are lots of sights to see. 

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but it's lonely, and bioluminescence doesn't fulfill my hunger. lit up. 

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maybe if i grow teeth larger than my mouth and sprout a lamp dangling from my head. maybe if i seal my eyes with three different lids. maybe if i could just handle a little bit more pressure. maybe then i could return to the fetal figure of a girl living in the hysteric ideation of what i do not know and what i cannot find and what we do not see. 

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inside your pouch, i am warm. i feel as though i am not alone. i am connected to the umbilical cord attached to the sea floor, being fed the particles of lost creatures and their shells. will i crumble in this way? will i resemble the fine sand? 

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no, i won't. instead i am dry. i will destroy my mother. i will break this water and i will. i will never be able to relive the creation of my legs. i will feed from her and i will. i will leave the shattering to her. i will make destruction the void-filler and i will never ever know.