29.

A crowd of thousands mills along the gray seashore. For miles the sandbar is resplendent with castles, each crafted by factions of beach-loving architects. The ocean’s sure hand, its fingers longer than last year, gropes inland to overswell their ramparts, never suspecting the crowd’s shackles, its snares, its contrition. The cerulean appendage lies severed beneath the pier; the castles it craves grow in number.

grh

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