Another sub-plot in an emerging story:

I am not that cynical, really. I am more of a drifter, floating on the waves, trusting the wind to carry me towards sunshine and deserted islands where, most likely, somebody will eventually use me as firewood. But until then, I'm content peaking through the glass surface, speaking to species I've never seen before. They emerge from a land I cannot reach, but I try to follow them into their depths despite the laws of physics. Who made those up, anyway, and can't I defy them if I define my own reality?

I made the mistake of trying to define each species depending on their color, scale size, direction of swim, but to no avail. Discovering a new world requires lack of vision, no depth perception, and an immense amount of trust. Trying to examine every unexplainable aspect of existence defeats the purpose of existing itself.