I dream I am an ocean filled entirely with words, blue into black, with inky sussurating depths. I wake instead to deserted desert hush, a husk, dried up, dried out, or hollowed. Listen to the soughing sighing of the wind: it sings, in echoes, someone else's song. No need to excavate, not here, the ruins plain to see: no work at all to read remains, to catalogue and blithely categorise. I dream I am an ocean. This is why: Because I worry at the sure. Because I'm bitter salt, that once was pure. Because perhaps like rivers if I pour myself into this empty space then I'll be made anew. Because a glimpse of ocean is enough, some nights, to carry through to dawn. Because in breaking, breaking, breaking, I'm reborn.