Waves crashing on rocky shores, letting loose their cacophony of thunderous applause. Beating upon the shore in it's endless task of life, the rule of charge that ebbs the wave ever further to crawl up onto land. To face the sun and to be burned and boiled, given life anew and risen to the clouds only to come down again, changed and formless but yet all the same. Come unto these yellow sands.
Do we march because of our own drive? Or do we, like the seaweed caught in the chaos of the filling tidepools, are merely forced to dance along to much greater forces than our own. Watching as the sea inevitably fills up the rocky scape, once a utopia of 6 fleeting hours, now under the freezing waves. The beings within change their directions, returning or receding. Some dig their heels by burying themselves in the sand, others by hiding in burrows and small caves. All efforts to change their fate, unknowing it was the sea's plan all along.
And yet the water recedes, eventually. As if the ocean itself grew tired of it's attempt to clamber onto the sand. 6 hours more and it's gone again, into miniature little pockets. Tiny visions into a completely different world.
The shape of something left behind, soaked and covered in debris, lay resting in one of those tide pools. As if the tide pool were a clam, and the being a bright creamy white pearl. It hardly moved, it's breath dropping and rising slowly, shallow. They're freezing but it looks like their body might be too tired to even shiver.
Is it dead?

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