That paranoid being that lives on the surface of the sea, in its madness, dreams to live as a bathyscaphe under the water. He cannot understand the sacred meaning that the ritual of fire has for us, Eskimo-hearted men.
That crazy mermaid fornicator cannot understand the warm touch of your hands, the thermal vibrations of your mouth or the healing miracle of your thighs. He would change your winter skin for some scales and an algae mane. He would prefer the lustful song of the fish-women to your contagious laughter.
I have been in his shoes so many times, at the bottom of the seven seas, in the silence of infinite aquariums and even in common fishbowls. So many times! I have shared my bed with beautiful and pretentious goldfish, forgotten trout, clumsy turtles, brilliant dolphins, and problematic sharks.
I have enjoyed the unknown so much, that when I saw you by the shoreline some time ago, - or was it on the other side of the glass? - with that anti-iceberg look, those stoning desires and that scorn for fish, I suddenly understood that your madness was different but complementary to mine, and if we put them together - who would know? Perhaps we could get along well...
- Everything is OK, isn't it?