The pulsating stream of interlaced eels spawning full forward the legacy of nematodes has been pushing the boundaries of the pond we have to offer here on Earth. Much is not left of it, but the most stalwart survivors and hangers on. This is a delicate balance maintained by only a vicious few. The predatory twisters after their spiraling prey. Strobing through shafts of sunlight having penetrated through the blue waves. 
The Nematode Alliance has prospered for millennia because the ill gained beneficiaries never knew any better than to spend their wares by the seaside, where the loneliest get called out to the lone piers during an odd moonlit night. Stretching from their cupola shells in electroharmonic exultation. Never to return to the company of the familiar again. These fading echoes of a memory etched within the shrinking halo of a membrane about to disappear along the radiant edge of a corona call out to me on the passing winds like a train's whistle disintegrating through a small devil's cyclone like a ragged harmonica's refrain adrift on an evening of ocean breezes. 
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