We built a house of sticks and stones. Settled beneath and called it home. No one was near from east to west. We caught the winds breath at it's best. The roof was that, of a thin black sheet. Held high by branches, the height of four feet. The waves were music, a sweet melody and my fingers they danced on the sands simplicity. Almost bare, beauty stripped to the naked bone. Lost in a land of a secret unknown. The rocks colored like honey, shaped as large beans accompanied me like seaweed in the still sea. Nothing needed but this beauty, the blue sky and the breeze. How a home with sweet nothing can be the ultimate peace.
California
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