The hooks are in but there aren't any words to catch. The nets are full of silence.
My fisheye is turning in 360 degrees.
The spirit is in the words, the words are in the letter, and the letter is in the bottle.
Think of three wishes while the ship travels from the heart to the spleen,
through inflammations and tempests, islands and organs, downstream the madness,
near the shores of the lungs and around the monsters of the abdominal cavity,
though the body is not round and the anchor was lowered in another, wrong place.
There is the new world where there's no tongue and the things have no names.

There is the seasickness that makes you write. There is the spleen from which the spirit springs.
The hooks are in but there aren't any words to catch. The nets are full of silence.
My fisheye is turning in 360 degrees.