There is a place you return to, in that peculiar dream, not quite a nightmare but not very pleasant either. This place moves around under the blankets in the back of your head, crooning and sneering at you, slithering out of reach. You do not know how you got there, or why the place exists, but you are trapped with a precious task. The place, the island, is watchful and living. You believe you are alone, separate and meandering, but there are more bodies present than you realise. As you find yourself new to the island, others are leaving it. You will be left alone waiting to migrate in the next storm. Moving on to the next world, becoming as much of the sea as you were once the mud, grass, rocks and mountains. You know, briefly enlightened, as a monstrous gulping wave takes you under, that this will be repeated. It is a sphere. Constant, edgeless and infinite.