Equality through Reservations?

On the other side of this sea, is soil. Thick, black soil, the colour of my oiled hair. I'll bury my stories in the soil across this tiring sea. The other day, she warned me against losing stories in the sea. Do you know of what happens to stories lost in the sea? Nobody knows. Maybe they'll end up in a fish's empty stomach into the nets they throw from their motor boats. Or if they're too light, they'll float and with the waves hit the shore ; and if they're too heavy and a little lucky, they'll manage to settle down. There are endless possibilities for stories lost in the sea. But I want my stories to be buried in the thick black soil, the colour of my oiled hair with the shards of paper that were once the letters you send me. Its hard to read them, now that the chai stains have erased some of that blue ink from your old Parker pen. But I still want them with my stories. I'll bury them deep and water them everyday. Maybe they'll grow, as you told me. Even if they dont, I'll still have the assurance of finding them stacked up in the layers of earth beneath,  in all shades of brown. Maybe they'll sing in feeble voices for our ears. I'll lie down against the ground and listen to their songs. You could join me if you want. But first ferry me across this sea, will you?