Silence, solitude, ritual, and contemplation. For hours, they stare intently at mirror waters reflecting the sun's passage across the sky. The weighting of the line, the winding of the reels. Meat and metal meet as, with the greatest of care, they pierce the flesh between the maggot's eyes. Fingertips descend into maggots, grubbing for a fresh sacrifice, a juicy virgin. It's all a macabre ritual to invoke a pleasant Sunday afternoon by the water, isn't it? The fisher delicately scratches the hook across their fingernail and nods at the white line left by a sharp point. Fishing, as I understand it, is not about catching fish.
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