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Description
The bow. Nothing more.
The rope holds the stake; the planks bear the memory of salt; rust runs down the seam. The boat isn’t facing the sea—its bow is turned toward us. It’s an old friend, for it has remained by the shore.
From a distance, a blue wedge against a light wall.
Up close, the rope’s knots, the chipped paint, the still water in the lower right corner.
Into the living room and hallway. Toward the wood, the linen, the gray plaster. It doesn’t want a storm. It wants peace beside it.
Original.