They do not cling to their vessels, though the ocean rises, twisting, folding and contorting before them. They do not swing madly to the port side bow, in vague attempts at fleeing icy eruptions at the bottom of the world.
If you were not here this day, you would imagine roaring, thunderous detonations of oceans upon oceans, and oceans upon jagged earth. But I was here this day, and all I could hear was laughter. The insane, perverted laughter of madmen?
The laughter of those who live at the bottom of the world, who never quite feel at home, until the world rises up around them and asks the questions, the questions only they can answer...