Since I found a label wound on a bottle, I’d loved that. Every day I went to the sea and picked up somethings, and then gazed at them. Glass bottles, metal bottles, and more plastic bottles. Almost naked, sometimes sparkling or readable. Anything else? The bottom held roof tiles, dancing wires and blind displays. Sleeping bombs still beat. My final discovery was bone flakes left in a car.
After work, I talked to a friend. I sent a photo of my effort. 203 sent me a image, too. It looked not to be forward. “You’re lucky. In space, no bottom.”