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The sun is setting. The sky is afire; golds, burnished bronze, bright pinks. It is bright.

The wind is on my skin; the hairs on my arms tickle as they stand upright in the chilled embrace. It is cold.

The waves crash upon the shore, the ocean never ceasing in her secret whispers to the land. It is loud.

The wind has laid salt upon my lips; I taste it without seeking it. It is invasive.

The smell of fish & chips is in the air, calling to my taste buds and nauseating my stomach. It is persistent.


It is tactile, real and unavoidable. It demands my interaction, my attention.


I think I'd rather see this on TV, kept safe behind glass, powered off when I'm done. I think I'd rather be in control, accustomed to the four blank walls of my room. I think I'd rather be disengaged, separate, impartial, uncaring.


I think I'd rather be isolated.



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