Isaac, a young stevedore, destroys his body each day at the harbor, hauling tangled masses of piscine life from the Black Sea. He breaks his back among the oiled ropes and unmarked crates and cartons. They come from Afar, far way. He exists on the broad back of the Eyesore, his living, swimming continental mass. Nearly each day it moves and vocalizes in its tectonic croaking language, where mountains split and rise like layer cake; the High and Mighty listen to its words. The terrified and learned fear it may speak imperatively. Each night in his fractal dreams, among girls, calloused hands, fires and blinking fish he scries a prophetic imago: A Bed of Blue, like a magmatic conduit flash-frozen. It is the Heart of the Eyesore, and no one knows. There is no Bed of Blue in legend or song, but he sees it, pulsing like a caudal lure. There is a girl, suspended in the flux and almost seeming to bathe in it. She has the face of Cybele, Isaac's dead lover, obscured in an azure gradient. She says "Where before you could only hear me and hold me, now you see me, and you understand."  The next day, Isaac is listening for the Overlook to call the first round of laborers to the ropes, when the Eyesore stretches its vestigial limbic system and yawns its dissonant song. All the others hear the commonplace sound, the day is uninterrupted; Isaac hears Cybele. She purrs into his ear from the inside and begins to give him instructions.