The archive has absorbed the flood to near the point of precipitation.  One touch, one extra drop and there is a loss of any form, just an oceanic magic mixture of interrelated sponge and sucked-up stuff.

The archive is everywhere, and everywhere is archival, like the distantly blue bits of the globe, connected, flowing between, freezing, circulating, warming, evaporating, stagnating, deepening, shallowing:  filthier and filthier as outflows, flotsam, jetsam, discarded and dismembered life clog its shallows and its depths.

Discovering something or other within the crowded cloudy cloaca is inevitable: but there is just so much so close together.