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  • The pink blush sits over Sunny Cove for a few breaths length. Further out, the clouds have been drained of fire, leaving an ashen overlay, like the delicate skin of new charcoal. Black Point lies below them. Pleasure Point juts out behind us. The last surfers mix with ocean foam. Bubbles skim across the thin wash of a wave's final charge up the beach. At its rout, I find that sand that feels like tender moss underfoot, where air, water and sand crackle like packaging. How many more of my days will end at the beach?
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