But the marks never go away.

Man was walking on the beach. It was nice to walk barefoot, she thought. Negative electricity accumulated in the body. Actually, tell me you’re walking barefoot in the countryside. Anyway, thank God. It sounds good. The sound of the waves, the wet and soft sands pressed down, the light wind, the sun’s temperature, the wetness of the waves, said the gar. He’s here by watching his eyes to the end of his footprints as he leaves on the beach. Location deleted. The waves took the sand. That’s what life said. Death at sea. Leave as many signs as you want and then you won’t. After? After what? You’re going to the sea. Footprint in the sand? He’s gone, he’s gone. Now at sea? No, the sea gave him.

The man I know the truth. Footprints on the beach. Waves sinking man into the sea. Footprints like men’s beach …

Roads to the beach continue at sea. This time they were going along the sea, not along the sea. There’s an upright radio on the shore. The man has already finished his march. Quiet, hotel. But the marks never go away.

It’s been a long time at sea. No one left on the beach. Now they were all on the sea. They crashed into the waves and ran to the left. They were the footprints of the walking foot. Sea, flowing sea, flowing footprints stopped coffee. They were resting by the sea.

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