Do fish hear? Or do they just fin through a muted, weightless world filled with current and colour and the distant fluting of whale? Is sound to them an extension of the water, born as waves within waves to fishy ears? Are the muffled booms and creaks of the earth just part of the imponderable ocean to them, as understood as the noise of stars are to us? Or are they perceived as external, inherent to an air based life? I wonder, as I lie in the sea of my bed, the hushed noises of night rising up to my window. I wonder what it would be like to be a fish. one darting flash of gilded colour in a liquid pool of glided pulsing bodies. A scaled life of low-key movement, constant movement in a vastness that is beyond matter, beyond the concepts of size, of small and smaller. I wonder if a fish feels its progress through the deep. Appreciates the sights of coral and other fish and the passage of submarines. Or if the cycle and the school is enough. The spawning and feeding and dying. And I wonder, as I drift into sleep, the rocking rhythm of my heart beating me into the dark. I wonder if fish dream.