I hear the sea crashing. It’s made out to be romantic, but I see no romance in wind moving water. I think I’m alone in this amphitheatre of grass and benches, but I can’t be too sure; I hear shuffling. Perhaps I’m just day dreaming, in which case I should stop, because ‘we’ve got work to do, and there’s no time for that’. Perhaps I’m just not right, wrong. Goosebumps rise on the skin beneath my clothes. It isn’t cold. This is my overture.
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