The castle crumbles.
Let historians go and get f****d; castles are still crumbling.
The boy cries. His parents walk hand in hand, further away. When a wave more reckless than the others tries to reach them, they make a small leap aside, together, giggling. The steps are synchronous. Soul mates for a day or a year or a decade. And the kid cries because he doesn’t understand that walls always crumble over time, whether they are made of sand or cement.
I would like the sun to be bolder, but it and I must be the same.
I took off my shoes and holed socks to feel the sand tickle my toes, but it’s stupid. I often thought of these moments of pleasure watching a movie or reading a book. Contemplative wanderings, little things, romantic moments, inspired lyricism. But it only makes sense on a sc
