Through the trapdoor on a wooden ship, shackled in chains, bound behind bars is a captive. On his knees, leaning forward, tormented by the rocking of the ship, his raven black hair has grown wild; It is unkempt and unruly and crawls with lice. His beard is full, but dirty. It is dark and damp and stinks of seawater and dead fish and urine. The boat rocks and he wretches. No one watches him, because who would ever subject themselves to such misery.
Pirates, eye-patch, lemon custard puffy white clouds. Meringue. Blow-torch. Poseidon. Captive audience. Bred in Captivity. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. A snake on the loose, escaped. Fear and terror. Unpredictability.
The ship has tattered sails; Worn white. Big strong trees built this monstrosity that could be snapped like a twig if a hurricane decided to come along. Uneasy explorers. Good and evil, subjective.
