The sun was barely above the horizon when the fisherman untied his boat and set himself free of dry land. Each wave he crossed, heading out to sea, marked a greater distance between him and everything to do with him. With every crest, he was a little further away from is house. His house, no longer his home. Yes, it had walls and furniture and pictures, but it had no spirit. The photos, the tables and the chairs existed without reason, without source; like the faded perfume of his wife which still lingered in the air long after she had gone. to analysis stylistics device ​

almikhaylova    1   23.05.2021 17:04    4