The surfboard, like the weight of abject sorrow he carries on his shoulders each day, is weighing Cliff down. How much longer can he support it? How long until the burden of wretchedness finally overpowers him? Look at those eyes… Not long.
Oh the prescience…
"I hate tennis."
A classically festive image for December with Cliff dragging a horse down a beach in the blazing sunshine, no doubt wondering where it all went wrong.
As with a lot of pictures of Cliff, at first glance he looks happy. But if you look closely, if you really search his eyes for signs of life, you soon realise that he is dying on the inside.
What’s wrong, Cliff? You’re clenching your fist, fresh from a great race, but your smile belies the inner turmoil you’re suffering. It’s all in those eyes, Cliff. You look so horribly worried. What dark burden are you carrying?
The last thing a man in Cliff’s fragile mental state should be left in charge of is a large space craft. “How did I end up here? I’ve never flown anything in my life before.”
No wonder he looks heart-wrenchingly worried.
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