Go down, abranchiate, to the mud and the mire, where your ancestors dwelt; in the suck slithering breaths that rasped through the fluted throats of your ichthyoid grandfathers and grandmothers, crowded broods of egg hatched thieves who robbed the churning, blundering depths of the sunless sludge at the bottom of the sea; down, go down, to where the heavy water sits, bloody blue and thick, like a river eroding the bottom of the world; go down to the ice cold canyons where your cousins sleep in circles, tied up in the jetsam a hundred years old to keep from floating apart in the windless wind down there, where they go down there; go, and sink your fingers in the bottom of the world; and see what you dredge up.