I look out my office window across to the bay; over the city, dotted with buildings, keeping the shore line curved, in an arc, around the dark expanse of water.
Boats come and boats go. I can only dream about their exotic destinations.
Cargo boats; some like floating, square boxes, some with long noses and a tiny brain, at the back, to navigate them, some with funnels, two a piece, and still others covered in cranes and winches and all manner of machinery.
No matter which, I dream about them going.
I fantasise about a deck chair on the bow, maybe a knee rug for the wind, long, golden drifts of sunshine, surrounded by blue, blue water all around me for as far as the eye could see, with a book and a drink and not a care worth considering.
That's what I think in the afternoon when I stop to look out my big, picture windows.
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