The only constant in the ocean is blackness, in depths such as these. Water so frigid you can feel it seeping into your pores covering your bones in a layer of fine frost. if you were to walk these wooden halls broken down and weathered by the water they would surely tell you a fine story. The blackness would be infinite your hands in front of your face lost in the inky depths. Numb fingers grasp the solid tube of a flash light illuminating a single path in the water. The water seems to be in a competition with northern Russia for the coldest temperature. The cold takes away your breath the knives of winter embedding in your appendages. Your pulse fills you, a back beat of life, you feel in in the tips of your slow moving fingers spurned by the water pressure. the flash light illuminates the murky water, leaving shadows spilling forth from the darkness threatening to swallow you. The silt swirls in the water as your hands grasp the handle of an old mirror, its cold surface slick with algae. The algae clings to the mirror soft and slimy reminding one of days spent in the community lake that was warmed only by the summer sun. Theres no sound this far down, you can however hear the silence louder, than any scream, as you frozenly move through the wreaked ship. the wood is caked with algea coral growing around its edges adding splash of colour to the desolate ship when your flashlight happens apon it. Your roaming fingers lock around a small cold object buried beneath the fine silt. Your fingers slide over the slick surface,the slime of the algae coating your pulsing finger tips your hindered eyes making out a weak discription before the flash light flickers and dies the frigid darkness blanketing you once more.
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