50. This is far from sublime, this moment. This is pure, comprehensible, savage, destruction. Not spectacular, not entertaining, but slow and steady, insipid like cancer. I can't feel it eating away, but I know that something is rotten in Denmark. I search and search for the dove with the olive branch, but the vultures still circle overhead. We have no ice-cold beverages on board. The white salty froth of the sea hangs on the waves like spittle on Charles Manson's beard. We are everywhere and we are nowhere. We are everything and we are nothing. When will this journey end? This little craft is cramped, and I can feel it sinking. A beach, a beach. My ocean for a beach-head.

51.