Imagine that the drowning, the water crowding in around your oversaturated lungs, was really just occurring along the inside of your being.
What spills over her mask-like visage is a thick, jet, oil. She had a name, but it poured into the same viscous world as her hair . . . and transformed. Careening the head, she plays the soft vibrations and wakes the tranquility where all impossibility is pushed away. And she pushes hard. The scent is clean and strong and earthy. The names had only to be whispered.
Despite the impending doom, the climbing walls, the softer blue penetrates the air. She feels it at her back. Grace and equilibrium push the seedlings to sprout, and flower, and bloom with wild, pink ideas that dance and drip down, like falling stars, and each one grants the wish that she imagined. One name, more names . . . she whispers them all.
Each frill, of each fish on earth, is utterly unique. All of the myriad marks of sand along the bottom of the sea jump into focus with each having its own fingerprint for the worlds filled with fountains filled with hands. She plucks the teeth and the joyous sound fills the air with schools and scores and possibilities.