Moon’s tides lather away dashes of existence just as mornings erase almucantar’s queue of flashes.

Mood chinchy prompting tossing the frisbee towards the foam rather than to owner’s call home? Never happened.

Fustian flirt regarding lass’s over-skirt turning into scuttlebutt about a derrière bare? Never happened.

Shoo the aves to prevent hatchlings’ parade from turning into a beach-yard of turtle graves? Never happened.

First to aid the stinging bite that is bleeding screams of ear-piercing fright? Never Happened.

Tree falls in forest. Feet squish sand. Most of both worst and best are left unaware, so if a track is to be left, be sure it is of a kind to care. ; )