White sand beach, absolutely empty as far as the eye can see.
Whispering winds that rustle the green palms ashutter.
Roaring seas, far in the distance thanks to the morning tides.
Turquoise waters shimmering in the morning sun.
Warm crystal pools that I sit in, cross-legged like a sea Buddha.
Endless periwinkle horizon met by the azure seas and the white surf.
Fat globulous white cotton clouds that drift northwest slowly.
The sublime shade from the morning sun by fluffy, fat clouds.
The sun's light burning bright the edges of the clouds in a lucent countenance.
Drawing sand windmills in the white clay surf, watching the waters fill back in the outlines.
On the beach at night alone, with Whitman.
The empty, dark beach, soothing and silent in the purple night's majesty.
The vast milk white galaxies and star punctuations across the open skies.
Walking slowly down the cool soft beach as the sea waves lap quietly on the surf.
Following the Southern Cross' points southerly down the endless night.
Time to play in my own head; time for me to focus on me; to focus on the senses and self.