Grains of sand

If life were a single soul Who set about penning an autobiography, I imagine there must be a chapter about life once lived in the sea shells that, having fallen one on top of another, have now become the grains of fine white sand, endlessly shifting between this morning’s glorious sunrise and this evening’s tranquil sunset. And another chapter about life lived in the wind that filled the white sails of a white yacht gliding slowly and exquisitely across a deep blue horizon, steered by a white haired skipper. Life lived in innumerable places. Autobiographical eternity, contemplatively. 

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