see the sunset turning red let all be quiet in your head and look about
It is an annual tradition as old as time: the great Post-LongNight-Debauchery Cleanup.
As a boy, you'd been drug out by your ear to participate, bitching and moaning the entire way. You were tired after LongNight, and it was bright, and you didn't wanna, but there was always some stubborn Auntie or other rounding up the local hooligans and setting your asses to work.
Eventually it had become something you looked forward to. Getting up and combing the beach for treasures was actually pretty fun, and as you got older you became the one to wrangle hooligans and drag them out to shore. Surrounded by exhausted, furious boys, you'd prod and chide and harass them into joining you on your morning, and reward them with the chance to dunk you underneath the waves.
These years your morning cleanup is a solitary activity. You walk along the water's edge enjoying the light, shirtless, a couple bags slung over your shoulders: one for treasure, one for trash. A shanty tune leaves your lips and mixes with the sound of the sea.
Spotting a particularly interesting piece of sea glass bend over to grab it before it it can be reclaimed by the tides, blissfully oblivious of the mull of the world around you, content to focus all your attention on cleaning up the beach.
As a boy, you'd been drug out by your ear to participate, bitching and moaning the entire way. You were tired after LongNight, and it was bright, and you didn't wanna, but there was always some stubborn Auntie or other rounding up the local hooligans and setting your asses to work.
Eventually it had become something you looked forward to. Getting up and combing the beach for treasures was actually pretty fun, and as you got older you became the one to wrangle hooligans and drag them out to shore. Surrounded by exhausted, furious boys, you'd prod and chide and harass them into joining you on your morning, and reward them with the chance to dunk you underneath the waves.
These years your morning cleanup is a solitary activity. You walk along the water's edge enjoying the light, shirtless, a couple bags slung over your shoulders: one for treasure, one for trash. A shanty tune leaves your lips and mixes with the sound of the sea.
Spotting a particularly interesting piece of sea glass bend over to grab it before it it can be reclaimed by the tides, blissfully oblivious of the mull of the world around you, content to focus all your attention on cleaning up the beach.
ZEPHYR
