I was growing tired of making sandcastles. Lonely beach, a Saturday evening. The wind is blowing right across my face and my thin frame trembles in the warmth of the setting sun. Somewhere in my bones, I feel a strange delight to be alive. Another gust of wind, a tall man in a black suit walks past me. He goes near the frothing water, where the waves are ecstatic to kiss the sand. His feet are submerged in the water, his socks are getting wet, and his shiny black shoes fill with sand. He sits down cross-legged, waves wash his bottom. He looks at the foams splattered by the waves of water, and smirks innocuously at it. He puts his right hand in his coat pocket and takes out his brown leather wallet. He takes all the money from it and stares at the printed notes for a few seconds. He screams in anger at the notes. I hear a few hollers. The silence of the beach broken, for a few seconds. He tosses the notes into the wind and notes colour the wind and like dead leaves, falls into the sand, dead. He starts laughing and until he is holding his stomach and rolling on the sand, onto the sea. He rolls into the sea laughing, face to the sky. Curious, I go to see what’s happening. He is submerged in the water, His eyes are dead, he is looking at the sky. His body has lost the prowess of life. His silky hair ever flowing as the waves lash on. His right hand is on top of his heart, he is smiling, smiling at himself, smiling at life, as he drifts into the sea.