A piece illustrating aspects of departure. How moments of action and perceived irreversibility eventually fall into their place on our floor and make little difference, little movement. This does not mean they are lacking in purpose or presence. A small gust of wind ringing the sails to their mast still thrums up a longing to leave. Even if they’re beached. Hung up and dried in their marina, those visiting from out of town, point and laugh at their size and their names, gilded to the bow.
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