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The seagulls pick at the sand surrounding my feet  aimlessly trying to pick any particle of soul from me  the smallest one tugs a hair  another one  one more tug
seagullsshriek toone anotherthey are open and honestand truelike human screams in conversationthe coarse sand plugging their throatssea salt wind and ice cream pavement
The Sky is blue,And full of poo,falling, spiralling, down,from white and brown-speckledcreatures They call seagulls. And the moral of this story is-Shit happens.
The crash of the waves Upon the shore The smell of the salt Oft described in folklore The feel of the sand Warm and soft underfoot The cry of the seagulls They saw my fresh fruit
Slippery SAl slipped slowly sideways in his slippers as see's seagulls sipping soda through straws.
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