This I, this hope, this dream, floats in the womb of the Ocean. Murmuring millennia drift by like seaweed tendrils brushing against the senses. Though I’ve lost the back of my head, somewhere, in some time, sea gods far behind me, below my floating, dreamily create currents, spinning me in ever-widening circles. I feel edges dissolving. I am water and wave, and a gull seeking food. I am raining upon my I – touching my self through every surface. I built my self from nothing. I built my self from everything. Water beads from my skin – no proof of substance; no more or less real than noticing. No more or less real than the infinite foldings of space that contain. I cannot end or begin this poem.