The estuary is like man who sits quiet behind doldrum desk - flat, smooth, ruffled by a change in wind but barely changing himself, existing but rarely intruding,

yet beneath is a salt-strewn murk, where a myriad of secrets fury away within, all feeding and fighting - fucking - where most can only drift on the surface, occasionally dropping hook in and hoping for the best,

few plunge their bodies but ne'er more than an hour or so before fear takes grip on their once warm hearts: ESCAPE,

the mind screams fraught with shattered fear, drowning in filthy green.

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