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Another Crossing
The way home meant another crossing: another boat, completely full. Crossings of hard labour. Of packed people, touching each other, going up and down, as the waves go.
Synchronized like lambs that get eaten for dinner. Human meat.
From the reflection from the waves, from the immense dark sea. Scattered randomly, touches of light. It gets brighter, too. From the reflection from the waves, you turn to the sky. The pitch dark turns to blue; it gets softened; on a warm steady pass, that goes quick, as you would want it to.
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