Down the break

Traveling on down the break. Those waves have kept their steady crashing upon that edge of the sandy line, that dropping off point where the little buckets of shells and the castle walls crash down and are taken. We have woven our bare steps in and out of the destruction going on about us, silent to the minute moments that once were kingdoms of grand sand.
The children are not just up to the task of keeping the house. They do their best, but in their non-engineered minds, they the little artists build the structures to a pattern not yet familiar to the laws of physics. And free from the pride in the finality, they lament not the day the waves come and wash it all away. Why, it is more of a glee than a tempered fit. They just build again, abandon again and the waves come again.
It matters not anyhow. We were never meant to maintain a stronghold upon the sandy line. In the universe, there are dead zones created, as in the green path between the razored barb, where freely the unnoticed can play without end. When we attempt our
sea walls and the privatized condobominations, it will not be long, but give the sea a hundred years if that is what it takes, and the grand line will be kept free from the intrusion of the dirted daubers.
It is not for us to ponder. It is only for us to come upon and weave among the shells and the washed up buckets and shovels and wonder.
And then upon the lifting of the breeze, pick up and carry on your flight down the eternal break.