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He contemplates the sea and bids farewell. To the cyclical sound, undisturbed, gentle and strong, as of the heart of a monstrous being that softly licks his feet. He stays there, erect, near the crushing of the waves and lets himself be kissed in that way, softly. Until he gets tired. He strolls to fool the weariness, to fool his body. But his body wont be deceived anymore. It's late. Too late.
Such a hurry to live ... for this ... for everything to end this way, abruptly.
And the sea murmurs, as if it wants to tell him something. And he goes forward and leans his body a little bit further and his ear and listens to the sea, as if a child holding a sea-shell larger than his hand, to his ear, to learn the secrets of the depths. But what he hears is but the sound of his own blood running inside his veins. And the sound of the sea is the sound of his own heart whispering to him "I am tired. I will stop now."
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