High flats keek above low clouds. Metallic screeches emanate from the ocean terminal. Three cranes standing in a row, arms saluting the river. The ambient pulse of traffic and the hiss of drizzle. The cold air soothing sunburn upon exiting the airport. A tanker leans against the flow, a tug strolls past bound in its proud posture. A disused dock does overtime and a thousand call centres cluster around it.
What's missing when you leave? Can't stand the ground further inland. Dreaming of somewhere else even though you'd be miserable not being here being miserable. Being cold isn't a feeling. For some reason, being here is. When the river opens up, you do too.
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