We build sandcastles just to destroy the pure, wet sand, dreaming of pineapples, messages in bottles and California. Suntanned toes and blue lipstick, red dyed hair that runs in the rain and streaks your shoulderblades with plastic blood. Lights twinkle over the harbour like your teeth in the sunlight. You attract men, flies and trouble, and all three irritate you and spoil your fun. You ask me, why can’t we burn down the local chapel on a Sunday morning? And it isn’t rhetorical. Hell hath no fury like an ex-Catholic.
Later that day, we conquer the sea. You remove your red panties and pierce them with a shank of driftwood, plunging it into the oncoming tide in the name of Us… and what a concept that seems to me sometimes. There is no Us, just You, hurtling around the Earth like a cannonball in the Hadron Collider, which you call…
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