On the warm shore of my childhood, one ship is absent. The gap is big and visible from miles away, like a pretty smile with a missing tooth. The twenty-year-old gap still hopes this ship will arrive before the dock rots. But my roots are short in range, my sails torn and chains of blue eyes are keeping a good grip on me. I want them to let me go somewhere further, try another waters and breathe another air.
CHIEF COMPLAINT: The patient is eager, claims having no ability to keep her toes still.
PHYSICAL EXAMINATION: HEENT: Without any obvious signs of trauma. Pupils are equal and reactive.
SKIN: With multiple excoriations from scratching and exposure to harsh weathers.
PROGNOSIS: Grim, but curable.
I am told that ship’s anchor never gets scrapped, it is sent to the city whose name it bears. My anchor can’t be ripped out of my inboard and sent to my city, but my city is forever etched on my anchor, no matter how far this aging ship will sail.
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