Right now I can hear the ocean but I can't talk back. I can't ask it, "how big are you?" or "how deep are your trenches, how cold can you be?". It will not respond. Only when it crashes before my feet will it speak and even then it will only reply that "there are too many questions regarding your own makeup that cannot be understood with adjectives and nouns and language and human fiction." The wide expanse, the undulating body, will demand from me only the awe that comes rushing up anyway. In that moment time will finally stop and with that, time for fear.

"All the scheming an plotting in the world won't result in something lasting, transcendent. Anything that's authentic, that's real, comes in the form of a gift. Even if it's by accident."

Jose Saramago