Between ash-gray clouds and rain like a wet sheet of sadness are tiny puffs of clouds. Hooked to an angry iceberg, they sway, swish and slash across the sky in terrible fascination at the trap laid for them long before the dawn awoke and retreated hurriedly at the sight of the ashen horizon. I am fascinated to how one thing hooked to another allows no movement, freedom or exit. Yet they are together, perched halfway between the sky and ocean's floor, floating somnambulists to a sea's rhythm and rhyme.
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