On a road next to the beach, a truck ploughs into a swarm of happy French souls and crushes them like insects, and among the broken bones and squashed heads, there lie the bodies of several children. On their bloodstained faces that glisten in the moonlight, a distinct lack of dignity is visible. We may only be animals, but even animals deserve to be treated with some semblance of respect. Such views are of no concern, however. A killer wants only to kill, and this place is full of them. Trying to build sandcastles out of clouds while drunk on the image of her smile, the world takes another turn for the worse, and it just seems to keep on turning. When I was a little boy, there were only blue skies and gardens. My grandparents fed me lemonade and biscuits during the summer holidays, and for days on end, I would play ball games with them. Sometimes, when they went inside to rest, I would while away the hours with my imaginary friends, and beneath the big tree that seemed higher than a church spire, together we would travel to distant lands. Part of me is still there, unwilling to come back and become what’s expected of me. How I wish to return to those days when the only horror to be encountered was on a videotape containing a ghost movie my grandad had taped ready to feed my itchy mind. There were no killers, only creepy monsters that came from cellar doors and attics. And love was pure, just like that strange, untold smile of hers. This place isn’t good at all. If beauty does manage to flourish, there’s always someone ready to stamp the life right out of it. This isn’t what we deserve, and it’s not what we want. To be happy in this place is fleeting. Despite the beauty it offers, life feels less like a gift, and more like a curse.