Bow to Stern. Bow to Stern. Like the rocking of a newborn babe, the black acrid ocean cradled sleep. But not the kind of sleep I deserved. The sideways, necromancy, arching, bursting slips of sonar curses. Squalls forever find my nights. Aft to Port. Aft to Port. Aft to Port. And Port to Aft. Shearing starboard bulkheads of issued grey matter falling out of my head. Stern to Bow. Aft to Port. Mid-ship flip. Stomach storms are the worst. And Castle-way, sanded with white crystals stinging singed exposed skin. Bow. Flooded berthing and lowered rails. Port. To the Stern I look for the wall of sea. Onix and toxic and consuming and bleak. Aft to Port. Then, Stern to Bow.
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