The ocean driven mad by the moon raises its great arms, many arms capped with foamy fingers at their crest.

They slam upon the shore hoping to holdfast, to inch themselves out, but the clever sand hardens at their touch, denying its grip. With a sad recoil the water flows back in preparation for another chance.

Just as the inches are gained their tether is pulled and flows back again. Its giant swells like growing tantrums. Its impact on the shore is as much anguish as desperation.

A Promethean struggle that possesses as much eternity as the ocean itself.

So much power and yet so much futility.

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