One hundred eighteen sightings. One hundred ten years.
A bell wider than a dining table. Arms longer than a house.
No sting. It wraps. The prey doesn't know until the ribbon finds it.
At 2,000 meters light is a rumor the surface tells itself.
The pelagic fish lives inside the bell, cleaning parasites, eating what it brushes against. Symbiosis: the dark feeding the dark.
A VHS tape, near-pristine, rests on the seafloor among coral the size of Vatican City.
Something recorded there will never be played again. The magnetic strip remembers a signal no machine can read.
The jelly passes over it, trailing arms that touch everything and grasp nothing by accident.
Widespread. Believed to be everywhere.
The sightings are the anomaly. The presence is the norm.