It is not wholly myself, this shadow tugging itself loose  as though it knew better where to go from here what to do and see before the ship leaves with the tide. Not a thousand ships, you understand, just the one. Tall and proud, I suppose, and in a dreadful hurry, what with the wind so uncertain.   But we are not near the sea, my shadow and I, we are in a high, quiet place, one of those improbable towers — Rapunzel’s, if you will — and the prince is nowhere to be found, he is perhaps out sunning himself on a rock, like a gecko with destiny in the flick of his tail.   Every love story ends badly: we know this, as we know that leaves will grow toward the sun, that the gods will die,  and the floodwaters rise.    I recall meeting a prince once

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