Daisy Johnson This is water to drown in. It sits adjacent to the tidal flow, bordering on forgotten. Unknown bodies move in its stagnant depths, startled by shadows and glimpses of myth, haunted by dreams of sunlight and clarity. Here, everything is obscured; character, motive and emotion thread their way through the shallows in a blur of muscle and memory, evolving across various timeframes. Fear and loathing are constant companions and hope little more than the occasional eddy, a final diminishing line of wake from distant, possibly imagined, movement.