Do not get me started on my voyages of the infinite waves. One thing is for sure, the journey has killed many lesser men, and even more better men. Why do I still live? Every corner lurks a demon, a further infringement upon my life at each curve, but pirates aren't even considered in these adjudications of mortality. Perhaps the only reason I breathe still is that in the other realms, the comfier ones, I have already ended my light's journey. The ships are many, from wooden junks to behemoth iron screeching bird nests. The mobiest of dicks is ever out of reach. Like many youthful maidens who are always in the myth's pursuit, so we are, yet just spotted in the distance is when the pirates slam in, crashing with a thunderous bang. The leaky holes are plugged, but eventually they cannot handle the sheer penetrating force, howling of violence. The pro's lapse in their defense of the water locks, the air tight compartments are breached. In rushes the eruptive gushing of salinity, and the debris is baptized in death's blood.
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