Once, there was a sea of love. A ship sailed on it. The ship’s painted surfaces were spick and span, maintained in immaculate condition by an army of white-clad sailors who scrubbed them down each morning before the passengers arose.

The ship that sailed on the sea of love pricked a perilous path between small, dark islands, hidden reefs, shoals and plotholes. Each morning its passengers came on board to discover, over a leisurely breakfast of brioches and fine, drip-filtered coffee, a multitude of scenes of astonishing and varied beauty. They cried aloud in wonder; they made small noises in their throats like the mewing of gulls. Their hearts fluttered, birds with hopeful wings, or leapt with the flying fish that traversed the ocean in glittering schools.

Beneath them, the ocean stretched and yawned. Mostly it was calm, it glittered and shone. At other times it rolled over and showed its dark, passionate underside. The smooth waters parted before the bow of the ship.

The ship sailed on.