The sharks

Small fish swim deep. Big fish swim deeper. We look at the small fish through tight goggles; skin stretched, pink; eyes pulled wide.

We bait our lines and they bite; with our teeth we stop their small tense straining, taut contortions. We are sharks in our own way, but armed with subtle fingers, flick-finned feet. We are sharks who are the enemy of small fish, who fear big fish like little else. We are sharks hunting on land, out of our depth, a hidden part of our brain ticking over, a forgotten metronome: do-not-breathe do-not-breathe do-not-breathe do-not-breathe do-not-breathe do-not-breathe do-not-breathe do-not-breathe.

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