How do the fish feel during a tsunami?

These are the questions no one should be asking, or answering.

Even the fish don’t want to know.

And they don’t want anyone else to know.

The fish, they don’t like me so much, and I’ve heard they don’t have any feelings – so I’m quite the exception to the rule.

Hell of a rule. Hell of an exception.

Still, I picture it: a fish, going about it’s business – coming about 8th when it comes to being a cool vague kind of animal. And then the entirety of life as you know it suddenly shifts violently to the left for a few miles and then finding yourself in downtown Tokyo.

Or you’re an octopus, either very busy being an octopus or just casually being an octopus – doesn’t really matter, and then a wall of other sea creatures comes in from the left, again, and travels with you back to downtown Tokyo.

We all know octopuses, they don’t like spending time other than exactly how they wish. And having to commute to central Tokyo, through valleys and past factories, trying to simultaneously enjoying the rapidly passing and increasingly soggy scenery, whilst also avoiding eye contact with the other fish.

‘Tsunami traffic’ which is a cool thing to phrase because it is technically alliteration, unlike ‘technically alliteration’ which is just crap writing.

Would thoughts about what is and what isn’t ‘technically alliteration’ occur to an octopus enduring that tsunami traffic? There are many things that aren’t ‘technically alliteration’ – like my breakfast, which I need to make now.

As such, I’ll call it quits there when it comes to how things go for this fish/octopus.

Maybe I’ll return to it this evening.

I’ve an important blog about AI I need to return to too, but this currently ridiculousness takes priority.

Priority after breakfast.

Sam