The Minute speaks:
Clouds are swimming
Within the sky-sea.
Where it is so blue, so very blue.
Its fin is scratched by branches of the seabed;
It hurts.
It does not cry out.
It turns into another kind of cloud.
We are talking on the seafloor,
Our voices very, very soft.
The characters under our pens flicker between light and dark.
Heeding nothing else,
We focus solely on the minuscule.
