This is a real place, it is real. You know it because you can’t feel your toes for the cold, for the pervasive mist that never leaves. But don’t be such a miserable bastard, look at the color of that water. When you’re back home in an underground office, you’ll remember these things: the smell of wet wood and the lapping of the tide receding into the great sound; the pleasing suck-suck-suck of the wet sand under your boots; the crunching of green mussels, picked clean by the birds.
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