The place in which he found himself was absolutely flat.  In the human world we seldom see flatness, for the trees and houses and hedges give a serrated edge to the landscape.  Even the grass sticks up with its myriad blades.  But here, in the belly of the night, the illimitable, flat, wet mud was as featureless as a dark junket.  If it had been wet sand, even, it would have had those little wave marks, like the palate of your mouth.

In this enormous flatness, there lived one element—the wind.  For it was an element.  It was a dimension, a power of darkness.  In the human world, the wind comes from somewhere, and goes somewhere, and, as it goes, it passes through somewhere—through trees or streets or hedgerows.  This wind came from nowhere.  It was going through the flatness of nowhere, to no place.  Horizontal, soundless except for a peculiar boom, tangible, infinite, the astounding dimensional weight of it streamed across the mud.  You could have ruled it with a straight-edge.  The titanic grey line of it was unwavering and solid.  You could have hooked the crook of your umbrella over it, and it would have hung there.

The Wart, facing into this wind, felt that he was uncreated.  Except for the wet solidity under his webbed feet, he was living in nothing—a solid nothing, like chaos.  His were the feelings of a point in geometry, existing mysteriously on the shortest distance between two points; or of a line, drawn on a plane surface which had length, breadth but no magnitude.  No magnitude! It was the very self of magnitude.  It was power, current, force, direction, a pulseless world-stream steady in limbo.

Bounds had been set to this unhallowed purgatory.  Far away to the east, perhaps a mile distant, there was an unbroken wall of sound.  It surged a little, seeming to expand and contract, but it was solid.  It was menacing, being desirous for victims—for it was the huge, remorseless sea.

Two miles to the west, there were three spots of light in a triangle. They were the weak wicks from fishermen's cottages, who had risen early to catch a tide in the complicated creeks of the salt marsh.  Its waters sometimes ran contrary to the ocean.  These were the total features of his world—the sea sound and the three small lights: darkness, flatness, vastness, wetness: and, in the gulf of night, the gulf-stream of the wind.

T. H. White, The Once and Future King