The boardwalk is a spiraling rectangle, thirty feet wide but eight miles long. Made of four inch thick boards of oak, its top is covered in a rustic, splintery surface patterned in smaller mahogany brown, anti-parallel rectangles folded up against a sandy white backdrop. The boards repeat. Red board. Brown board. Red. Brown. On both sides, the wooden planks are circumscribed by congruent shining fences made of an alloy of metallic silvers and aluminums. By compass east, wooden benches of a different tree line the railings, covered with a waxy crème plastic for comfort. By compass west, a body of water disseminates an entire horizon.
     The waves cascade on the shore in an organized asymmetry of intervals. The first wave takes three seconds. The second takes two. Three seconds. Two seconds. One second. Four seconds. Three seconds. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. With each expansion, the artificial surface of the afflicted area is wiped clean. With each contraction, the surface is painted anew. Each revolution brings both destruction and conservation, both a remnant of the past and a product of the future.  Time continues to pass. Soon, the waves are hard to see. The intervals change their tune, but not their purpose. One second. Half a second. One second. One second. Time continues to pass. The waves cannot be seen, but they can be heard. They can be counted. One second. One second. Half a second. One second. Time continues to pass. The waves cannot be seen. The waves cannot be heard.
     Something is heard. A heartbeat is felt. One second. Half a second. One second.