They ended on golden beaches with brilliant sunshine and never-ending terrains of majestic beauty. The turmoils of life, the school of rock, the heavens of God - these are the places we know and the places we have frequented. These are the places of abode and those that trained our hands for what we now know.
Character, heart, aura, depth.
Stalwarts. Slumdogs from Africa to England and beyond.
'Are you laughing at me; I don't want to talk about it; is that right; don't lie to me,' he always remarked with hilarity.
'Sometimes you've just go to get out of the boat. Sometimes you've just got to walk on the water,' she said in her attempt at another accent.
'Depends if the boat has heating,' he comments on the phone.
'Mmm,' she thought. Her response a day before had been 'but I like the boat!'
Roscow shrugged repetitively in his own rugged manner. His black and white striped duvet lay on the floor where the irridescent sun shone onto the tiles.
NOW IN AMERICA...
'Goodmorning South America,' he grunted with deep satisfaction.
The ripples of water awaited his hands at the nearby Fisherman's River which lay around the corner from the beamed house. Roscow fervently cleaned his fishing rods the night before. He had always loved the water since his youth when he was taught more than to fish - to cock a weapon and to hunt. Like his father.
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