Shipmates are starting to die off and the boats we sailed to disappear. “At my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near”.

Need a group memoriam:

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There is a port of no return, where ships
May ride at anchor for a little space
And then, some starless night, the cable slips,
Leaving an eddy at the mooring place . . .
Gulls, veer no longer. Sailor, rest your oar.
No tangled wreckage will be washed ashore.

Lost Harbor
by Leslie Nelson Jennings

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