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49 Riptide The sea gives rise to a tide of jeremiads, the why-me waves all sentiment and gush, go their felo-de-se way and die sighing sandy inamoratas of cant. Who cares who listens— not God, the tall power boat, tiny and at sea, nor the squat tug lugging its ugly embargo— but the fat beached fish, repeating bad tidings like a line why go on while the breakers break one borne bright out of foam and come to nothing. ...

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