I started this dream on a city bus and ended it at the head of a boat—singing a language I didn’t know, calling people home from the wreckage.

In between?

Glass ceilings that shattered on command.

Starving fish that bit but didn’t mean harm.

A collapsing bridge, a message from the dead,

and a stranger who said, you’re finally here.

This is a dream about survival that refuses to be small.

About being mistaken for a victim—until you remember you’re the one doing the calling.

Welcome to The Sea Dried Up and I Kept Singing.

Stay if you’re ready.

Swim if you’re not.