telltalechatter
The trend of society is to be what everyone else requires of you. You are born an original, destined to die a copy because of society's trends.
The knife digs in and slides out, carving a statue of something. It is frozen in time now, this moment, this person, frozen in wood.
The waves against the shore create music. Crash, crash, crash - the tempo of the dance. Dancers twirl and step, wet sand squidging between toes. Life is simple, if you let it be. Like a beach and the waves, you can have simple.