They wanted everything, so they took it: the leaves from the trees ... and the trees; movement and stillness and the light from the sun ... and from where I stand on the filthy beach outside the yacht-club, even the surface of the water.
We are inhabited by these — the night-forests — the long masts of their boats white in the evening and stinking of salt ... tall and thin and white; at the end of the world ... in grief. ... M.T.C. Cronin
The Night-Forests
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