These are your inquests. We have found evidence scattered throughout the sands, little scabs of metal here and there. Beachcombers slice their feet, making the map of the land a painting wreathed in fury.
And the yellow caution tape clicks its tongues at us. It is a little brat; its ribboning wills stretched out from one end of the beach to the other.
There is no one here to handle the minesweepers. They are afraid and their emptiness is a domed ceiling. By week's end the tides will carry it all out—the blood and the steel. It will look like a mind firing.