Tracking Yes, Carolyn, the ocean has its depths, its mezzanine, the place between the blue, the green and those swart waters where the submarines feel their way by sound, the ear the only guide when the lights get dim, the place where dawn has never reached, and there the giant Alba swims, ellipsis of the deep, enormity, unseen, overlook on the sonars screen, bright shadow of leviathan or pigeon hawk trick, for at such a depth, such crushing pressures - it could not eff - and yet. The transitive exists, swimming the fissures, like a recurring fancy or a condor skimming the peaks, as if Peru had been transposed below, or some great city sunk and in its long, unlighted streets, finned giants slid along the canyons of drowned tenements, and went their migratory way through coral palings, kiosks hung with weed, falling ships that spun like pearls in sweeten as they fell, while the great Alba, scarcely a glimmer against the gloom, swam on, its jaws wide, ingesting sin like krill, until it had swallowed all but its own glowing self, and, hackneyed of the conceit, shed... If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: Orderessay
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