He sat by the fire, wondering why he was typing in third person; and also why the second person was so elusive every time. Time stood still and stared into the back of his head, willing him to turn around and face his own mortality. But he, like many at that precise moment, simply stared into the middle distance; while flames licked glass and worn jeans warmed knees, and the sound of wind in the flue painted the picture of a turbulent storm at sea,¬†¬†seizing the sailors in terror as they scrambled across the slippery see-sawing deck to untie ropes and lash down sails and make their quick escape to the watertight cabin below. The winds bellowing, blowing gusto. Board games, spilt tea, waterproofs, a compass. Bearings straight, The Bering Strait. Late in time. The meaning. I mean. I forget. Yet never knew. To begin with. I sat…

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