The beach has a language of its own, with its undulating ribbons of silt, the imponderable hieroglyphs of bird tracks. The receding waves catch on innumerable holes in the sand. Bubbles form and fade. A new language, with a new alphabet.
Franny BillingsleyBut witchy magic doesnโt listen to please and pretty please, and anyway, I didnโt really care. I only pretended to care because not caring makes me a monster.
Franny Billingsley