The sea, my friend, does not dream of monsters.
Tiny beings, bursting with vitality,
throwing themselves at him,
sinking or swimming or drowning,
no, the sea does not dream of these.
He does not wonder about his own endless
depths, or the way that the world has made him. He does
not speak to himself about himself,
though he is boundless, and in him
swim things even he does not know.
Those rafts that sail upon him are
swatted hither and thither,
an angry god, a beast
ridding himself of mild
One such as he
but does ever one such as he
dwell over that change?
He does not witness the oil towers.
He does not judge the parting of waters.
He does not contemplate change,
for he merely is.
Though you may dream of the sea, my friend,
he does not dream of you.