Row.

The boat rose in the water as the wave washed against it. The boat sank. Always a little higher, then a little lower.

But still he continued to row.

The sun rose in the sky, far in the distance. It circled over him, flooding his senses with light and heat. And then it sank.

But still he continued to row.

He’d been out at sea for hours. Days. Months. Years. Minutes. Interminable. He had no idea how long it had been.

But still he continued to row.

He was surrounded by water — a blue dream-like ocean of nothingness, as far as the eye could see.

But still he continued to row.

There was nothing to go back to, and no destination he could see. It was as if he strained against a static backdrop of perpetual futility.

But still he continued to row.

The straight line of the horizon broke its seamless form. Almost imperceptibly, the distant future in front of him began to take shape.

And determinedly, he continued to row.

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