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  • The wind is like a giant paintbrush sweeping across the dunes.

    Paints the sky and the ocean a beautiful new color of blue every night.

    The fierce artistic inspiration in its hand never dwindles as it gets older.

    The cottage creaks because it’s alive. I don’t like silent houses as much, I don’t like living inside motionless robots.

    Air fresheners run out. The smell of the sea does not.
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