How do we even know that shit isn't still around? Lurking? Evolving? We don't. We don't know shit about shit down there. The ocean is a primeval hellscape nightmare and we all just dip our stupid fragile unprotected fetus bodies around the edges of it like that's normal. Fuck the ocean.
I was known in my time. Lady of Butterflies, Princess of Darkness... Mistress of Typos. The funny things was, I was nothing my dreamer was not. And she never bothered to hide any of it, either. We were just... different. Different upbringings, different directions, different stories, but the same motivations. Same wills and dreams. Same final resting place, for a few years at least. But things change.