Life is an ocean, so the philosophers think.
Life’s an ocean, them dusty philosophers think.
Well, the storm’s a-brewin’, my boat’s startin’ to sink.
There’s a light, a certain kind of light, that pours over the landscape on a winter afternoon, enveloping the mountains in a languid melancholy, making the sea contemplate the ebbs and flows of its transient life. The birds have long since flown away, leaving behind their silent sad song. Summer seems but a distant memory. Spring is some vague promise from a casual friend. A promise you certainly wouldn’t bet your farm on. Anyway your farm has already been repossessed. By her new husband.
It’s Fingers Flaherty’s favourite time of the day…