The sailor asks his audience, where shall I go? The inactive actors are lost at sea, writing their dreams on single sheets of life. Hiding in the inflexible vault, storms rage the sealed door, held by thousands of souls.
Wherever the beast wonders in the magnolia fields it will re-spark. However the sailor flies, he will be visible in the dark crowd. However the rhythm snaps, the toy block skyscrapers will tower before they crumble. Twisted, the hands snag the entangled lightening bolt, ripping them up, to the rampant sea.

Water crushes typhoons, while goldfish tackle sharks. The sailor struggles to hold on, no number of crew, of lines, of maps and compasses can keep him on course. But labor only incites change in his soul. A darkened mass falls on his shoulders, light sets in the rising tsunami, leaving white spray in its midst.
This only causes further bewilderment, on the next course. Cold breath kisses the lips of the monster, clutching in hand the grenade of life. But we are all destined to deviate, for no course is ever fated.