Luminous rivers part around you, over a sea that goes all the way down
move to part the current · hold to stir, keep holding to unleash · flick to jet · tap to ripple, tap again to ring it · tap what lives here · the corner takes you down to the floor, and back
Rivers of luminous particles pour across the frame like water and part around every hand in them. The water is a whole column seen from the side, surface to floor: a meniscus that rolls with the swell, shafts of daylight fanning down through it, a layer of krill that rises when the light goes, and a bed with a wreck, a vent chimney and a whale fall on it, which every arc's descent reaches. A whole cast lives in the water and behaves — jellyfish that ring an alarm, a squid that inks, a school that balls up, a sunfish basking under the surface, a seal hunting under the ice — and something enormous passes below every few minutes, close enough once an arc to fill the frame. A day turns every twelve minutes. An eclipse covers the afternoon sun, a ship crosses overhead as a shadow, the sea itself glows white in the night, a quake opens the floor and leaves it alight, and near the end the lights go out for twenty seconds. Every other arc the way back up ends in a breach; the arcs between freeze over instead. Move to part the current, hold to stir it into a vortex, flick to jet, tap to ring it, and tap anything alive, because everything here answers. Stand still long enough and on its next pass the body comes to look.