Fishermen grumble to their nets. Nogood Boyo goes out in the dinghy _Zanzibar_, ships the oars, drifts slowly in the dab-filled bay, and, lying on his back in the unbaled water, among crabs’ legs and tangled lines, looks up at the spring sky.
NOGOOD BOYO (Softly, lazily)
I don’t know who’s up there and I don’t care.
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