Although in the thick of a journey, the ship in the bottle isn’t going anyhwere. It has alrady reached its destination, while the bottle itself is long past being emptied of its contents and has become an absence, the very atmoshpere of the ship rushing nowhere with wind-filled sails. There is no end in sight; being is the paradox of stationary motion. And the wind that swells the sails, ruffles the whitecaps ona a blue plastic sea, is the wind of the ship’s creation, which blew in the workshop of its maker, whose restlessness was physical and existential, whose materials were chosen from the cast off and abandoned; and who, when he had completed his work, corked the bottle, walked out to the dirt street of his small fishing village to smoke a cigarette and gaze at the sea, which churns and plunges and goes no place,