When He made the earth, God stepped back and saw what He had done; He cried for his creations and that first tear became the seas.

God tuned the ocean to a power chord, and then dreamed up vampire squid because He is Metal. And then penguins, and bowhead whales, and plankton. Plankton are the randos of the seas.

He made the water blue, and black, and green, and clear, and sometimes blood-red; He loved his oceans and didn’t want monkeys to turn it into piss, so He invented salt and scattered it with the winds He dreamed of one afternoon.

God needed amplifiers and then there were glaciers that cracked every Spring like wet volcanoes, and his guitar picks were sharks’ teeth.

There were abyssals and sandbars and mountains that called Everest a pussy; He made seahorses when He had writer’s block.

And when the whales breach and leap and splash like toddlers, they’re just trying to see Him. Whale songs are prayers.

All songs are prayers, but God plays favorites.