Humans pass through the port every day. They vary in their ways - some walk, trance-like through the array of experiences, senses, and sensations at the port. Others carry immense weight and still choose to jog lumberingly - them I do not envy, but them I indeed admire. More still choose to sprint, hamstrings and quadriceps firing at a taut, break-neck, break-body pace. They choose pain and hurting not in an effort to damage their bodies, but to heal their minds (or appease them if they are sickly with want). Still others walk with their cumbersome garments that reek of wealth and vanity. They do not see that the volume of their capes sweeps the others into the bay to drown in the black, poisoned waters.
More humans, invisible to the observer, slide softly amongst the others. They dress in a color that encodes the murk that once was called water - it permeates from the port to the boundary of the world.
All await a ship to carry them to an eternal darkness, but they do not know their voyage is eternal. Blinded by the spark that ignites the engine of the ship, their fate is invisible in the face of a naïve focus.
If they averted their eyes for a moment from the spark, they would see the gaze of death awaiting everywhere.