He did not hate them. He pitied them. They were mayflies, building castles on the skin of a sleeper.
Then he turned. He waded back into the harbor, each step sending a tidal wave toward the shore, toward the city he had not meant to harm. He sank beneath the waves without a sound. the visitor godzilla
And somewhere deep in the trench, where the pressure would turn a submarine to foil, he curled into the dark and closed his ancient eye. Dreaming of salt. Dreaming of stars. Dreaming of the ocean he had lost. He did not hate them
