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  • Waves. Pulsing and crashing on the rocks, foaming against the jagged stones then dissipating and fizzling away back to sea. A brisk coastal wind cutting into your face, carrying the deep scents of salt towards the land and straining tears from your eyes.

    Along the beach the tide is rushing in, immersing the sand and shale in it's path. Trails of footprints are washed away, stolen from their place as the arms of sea snatch and retreat to their body. Then the arms and hands return, fingers entwined between the pebbles, grasping and searching for...something.

    Out to sea are ships and tankers. Silhouettes against the morning sun, still rising from it's slumber, they are only shapes and shadows. Waves are pulsing and colliding agains the foot of the cliff. Above them sits a young man, hunched over on a bench, hands in his pockets, fighting for warmth against the chill. He is gazing out into the vast expanse of water, hunting for the distant horizon, looking for...something.

    He wonders if the horizon is infinite. It's impossible to tell where it begins or where it ends. He imagines the sea rolling beyond it for miles upon miles upon miles, along the curvature of the Earth, until it finds it's way back here, where he is sat. And although it never will, he waits for that wave to engulf him as a sudden blast of cold, sea wind batters his face. His cheeks flush red, the horizon begins to blur, and as thin veins of red creep across the whites of his eyes the tears begin to flow.
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