Scroll. The light has about two hundred metres left in it.
Reds vanish first. A cut here bleeds green. Fish become silhouettes, then rumours.
One thousand metres. No sun has ever reached this water. Pressure: a hundred atmospheres, patient and total.
Not for you. For whatever is smaller than it, and curious, and about to make a mistake.
The floor. Silt, a whale's ribcage, and time doing nothing in particular. You came all this way to find out it's quiet.