We can never be alone anymore. Even at dawn in stormy weather with Destiny on our side. Even after we cut through the foreboding white caps and punched through endless angry brown hands of kelp and finally pierced the edge of the endless black. They still follow us.
I hate most of them, especially the ones on jetskis, but I can't hate all of them. Like the lobstermen. "They're doing it for a living," you say. Far be it me to come down on the working man.
They built the bloody pyramid, one pound of flesh at a time. Let us climb it now.
We can never be alone anymore. Even after we cut through white, punched through brown and finally pierced the edge of the endless black--they still follow us.
At last seated in the cockpit, I understood the height, the meaning of the foaming waves that pounded toward us with the power of god and the indifference of a machine. Caught up in an endless cycle of currents and tides.
