Beneath the sun's gossip and the ocean’s furry hippos, lies the ever-shifting beach. They say every grain has its own memoir – secretive, of course, it would not satisfy the currents’ restless posture.
If you listen closely (or before running out of battery), the sands echo memories of someone becoming a disgraced mayor feather-hatted in a hurricane parody.
How we remember is mostly how we never mean to begin pretending.
"Should memories be engraved on stone, or are they written on grains among looking-back sea foam?"—Beenfortun Eght, amateur anti-philosopher
In an empty room, one pays a light toll of reverberations, and yet it is cheaper than expected to dissolve in postal service metaphors.
Dust motes disagree, swirling in an electric abyss, they shyly hint at nocturnal portmanteaus and never-to-be-coiled souvenirs.
Perhaps irony remains... distant, as is your car distant from a just-write romance decision.
Have a doubt? Check the following prophecy consultan scribble:
Sevens Problem Digits
Or return to general frustration:
Missing Van Ash