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... between my toes.

When the waves hit the sandbank and break, my slender wrists flail.

The waves wash away the little sand I hold in my hand.

I cry and hold on, but I get nothing back.

Not the waves. Not the sand. Not even my tears.

I ask through my stitched mouth.

-God. Can't you hold them tighter?

-Isn't it possible to save even just a handful more from those cruel waves?

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