He stands with his suitcase looking out at the boats. His eyes glance over the marina, the yachts, the ferry, the lighthouse, the old walled city. A tourist, a visitor, his luggage sat by his feet, overlooking this town of dreams. The seaside. The port. The history brushed neat and tidy, power, blood, abuse and guts, packaged in pretty boxes to be sold to five million people trapsing these streets seeking the moment where love, pleasure and happiness collide. Children stick spades into the sand as parents rub cream on freckled shoulders. Sticky fingers hold metal rails, lads swill beer, water meets skin where battles were fought. The comfortable slide on limpid water in yachts with bunks and sip white wine. Russian sailors, white-skinned, blue-eyed, crew rust rotten tankers and dream of home. The drone of the little train filled with fat tourists, their hot skin sticking to fake leather seats. The grey granite walls have heard these stories a hundred, thousand, million, trillion times.
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