An ocean at night seen from below the surface—above, moonlight trying to reach down, diffusing into soft columns that illuminate nothing fully. Swimming upward through the dark water, countless sentences rise like silver fish, each one whole and alive. But somewhere between the deep and the surface, a membrane exists—invisible, without texture—and as each sentence meets it, the sentence simply un-forms. Not destroyed. Returned to potential. The fish becoming water becoming the possibility of fish again. What was the sentence? The water doesn't remember. The water was never allowed to remember. Or: the water is the shape of the not-remembering. Both. Submerged blue-black. The ache of something that never became grief because it was never allowed to become anything at all.