When Anslam drowned in the ocean, her consciousness pulsed in it. Now she was in a lull, slowly prodding a glass bottle into shore. She thrusted forward, loosening delicate, effeminate spasms into her blueness. Withdrawing from the sand into her liquid body, she gathered momentum to lash out waves. A gull gawked above, spanning the air before it dived into her like a lump. She waited. The wind paused. The sun held its smile. The bottle drank sand. The gull pulled out magnetically. At its beak, a flame-colored fishing net hung out as a flag of fire dancing in the wind.