Ornate blossoms swell and subside with the pulsations of the planks that make up the rough wooden deck. Hypothalamus Jones, caked from head to foot with dust, rests his weary ankles by the seaside. His head feels heavy like a bomb as he thrusts his ankles out in the direction of the water, struggling, flailing, in a weak attempt to reach its glistening surface. He coughs, sputters, falls out of his chair and into the sea, SPLASH. Ahhh. He swims, feels young again, breathes the cool water through his newly developed gills, feels the texture of the smooth liquid on his legs and arms, dislodging thick hunks of dust from his pores and freeing his frail body from its once-infinite downward plunge. Running his baby-soft hands over the layer of flesh that surrounds his delicate bone structure, he lets out a triumphant YELP and twirls and extends into the depths to uncover mountainous unsought frequencies and dominate the new earth.