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Then we risk foundering on a dark lake of stagnant, dead water, and dragging our mind’s creations down with us, so that they are left to perish among dead rats and rotting flowers in a dark, warm whirlpool.

Yarborough morosely added: “The water used to be so clear you could see the seagrass move back and forth. Now you can’t see the bottom. The dead water sort of moves around the bay and you think ‘I’ve just gotta get out of here.’”

In the long gray dusk they crossed a river and stopped and looked down from the concrete balustrade at the slow dead water passing underneath.

Each time I took another sip it tasted more and mere like dead water.

“But now you have dead water.”