Building, building, building. Transcending the hate and the surfeit of slime posted by the gutter dwellers. I am coming alive again on the Oregon Coast beach with the sun going down, but not on me.
I am the only one around for miles, except for the lone gull. He’s hanging with me as I move from fort to fort and add, shore up, decorate, the 13 or 14 forts I’ve built here in the past five months. The installation is ready for the Spring Break hordes, but there will be no Spring Break hordes here. There can’t be. They don’t know this beach exists.
The cirrus clouds are turning orange and purple and a faded blue. The ocean is rolling slate and white.
If only I could build forts for a living. I think I already am.
There is no money in building driftwood forts, only richness.
Many scoff. Many deride. They’ll never get it. But they would if they joined me for a build. They merely have to ask.