The sunset.
The waves.
The sand.
The stones.
The shells.
The driftwood.
The sailboats.
Even the breeze.
A painter can paint these things.
But can I,
Only a writer of my own enjoyment,
Can I paint these feelings,
These things,

With words?

I now know that there is one thing I can not paint with my words.

It is the lone figure who sits on the sand,

who walks in the waves, and

who lives of the sunset.

This, no one can do,

for no mind,

whether of a painter of a writer,

can do another justice.