As the illusion of time rolls forward, shells are washed onto the beach. Empty vessels of grandeur per hustled dreams leave their bodies.
Outside beauty leaves a spectacle of a fancy fallacy. The young she walks through the valley of shells; I want to be like her or him, I want to be them. The unconscious wind blows and the shells sing their mythical hymns.
They speak of dependence, acceptance and folly; be our version of beautiful and you will be quite jolly. The girl begins placing the shells in her purple laden dress; I want to be like them.
Heavier near, more beautiful shells. Listen. Gather. Keep. More. She keeps placing the lovely fragments in her dress, heavier still. More.
As the tide washes in, she scrambles to take the last bits of treasure. They speak to her so. As the water grabs her innocence, the weight of the shells is too burdensome and downward she sinks.
As the illusion of time rolls forward, shells are washed onto the beach. A purple shell is on the beach.
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