What a death those cabins, old, dark green, left there, to rot, a seagull passes by there, behind the fence, there are no shells.
Here the sand is not sandy, particularly hard, a mattress would be needed, it would be nice to find it already here.
It would be nice, yes, it would be nice to fall asleep on it, like street children, like homeless people, like living under bridges, falling asleep on the mattress in the street.
Here the sand is hard, but over time you get used to it, you realize it at first, then that's enough, you look at the clouds, you listen to the waves, you kiss her skin, the shirt seems to take off by itself, the wind is a bit too much, I would like absolute silence, now, only your noise, I would just like a mattress from the street.
