In an unexpected twist, the shoreline doesn't whisper; it shouts
but only if you listen under the surface of salted whispers.
Ever heard a clam tell a joke? Neither have I. Must be why
they keep their shells so closed.
Phantom footsteps ambled here just yesterday—left
behind a set of mismatched socks and an encyclopedic
entry on the virtues of sand between the toes.
Remember, footprints are the shadows of our well-placed
intentions… or so says the ghost who just spilled my coffee.
Click around, you might just stumble upon the shoreline's
best-kept secret: a black sand confession booth.
Don't forget to tip the ghost.