Life at Sea

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I’m tired like a cliche. Like I’ve been alone in this raft too long with no food or water and the sun beating down on my naked body twenty four hours a day. It’s been so long I can’t even remember the shipwreck. Was there any ship at all?

Tell me I didn’t do this to myself. Tell me that life on that island wasn’t worth it. It has to be better on the next rock. Anything has to be better than this. I enjoy my own company but the jokes get old after a while and the silence becomes awkward.

I received a message in a bottle but I couldn’t get the cork off so I threw it to the depths. It bounced back out of the water and into the raft. Instead of repeating myself I use it as a pillow and spend sleepless hours thinking of what the metaphor might be.

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