Her tiny boat was as big as her former room, this small vessel with pale paint peeling from its hull, itself bobbing gently within the expanse of an endless sea. She had been adrift for months, perhaps years, and time was not all that she had lost. With this emptiness enveloping her like a warm blanket in darkest winter, she put her hand over the side of the boat, her fingertips tenderly touching the icy water as if playing along the keyboard of Silence’s piano.
The perplexity of the situation became apparent whenever she attempted to paddle herself towards some unseen shore, for as soon as an oar touched the surface of the sea: the water roiled and roared, waves suddenly rearing themselves furiously from the stillness until walls of angry swells surrounded her completely—with foaming viciousness piquing from each crest. The moment an oar was removed from the water, all returned to placidity, and so she had learned to simply sit and contemplate her condition—with loneliness her only friend. And so she persisted to drift, as merrily as could be, herself little more than a spurned speck silhouetted against a starless sky—with its horizon dividing nothingness from itself for all eternities to come.