They walk along the beach, poking the sand with sticks, overturning rocks, rustling the dune-grass.
"We are looking for our children," they say, when you ask them.
"We do not know their names. We did not lose children," they clarify, when you ask them further, politely. "We have not found them the first time yet."
"We came from nothing," they tell you as you shuffle away, avoiding eye contact. "We crawled full-formed from the foam. We therefore, obviously, have nothing inside of us, and so we search outside."
"They must be very well hidden," they say to themselves, alone again.
Whalen on Slow Reading
23 hours ago