The hills, sea, and sky are powerless to the blush of a setting sun. So am I, compelled as I am to stand and stare as it changes the way things look. We crawl through the midnight water to mountains in the northern sea: Shetland. The ferry is a gypsy ship overflowing with musicians on their way, like me, to the Shetland Folk Festival. Lively sessions spring up in the bars on deck six throughout the night.
The sunset is like a goodbye kiss that would hold even more power if we didn’t know better. How many woeful pleadings for the sun to return have been forgotten in the passing eons? Later, I stagger out on to the aft deck at 4am as the sky slowly drains of black. This brightening is like the knowledge of the impending arrival of a longed-for other. The sun rise itself, her appearance in the flesh, in front of you.
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