Everything is prettier on the beach. The seafoam gives the waves an illusion of snow capped mountains and the sun is a bright blossom in the sky, though the autumn air is crisp and reveals my slow steady breath in the from of wispy clouds that fade away into nothing. The beauty of this place has never failed to captivate me, so as I stroll along the seaside in my fuzzy red sweater and rolled up jeans, I take in my surroundings with every step. But I’m not here just to walk, I’m scanning the sandy ground as I go, taking inventory of its contents, and then, when i spot a salmon pink shell or a piece of glass whose sharp edges have long since been softened and rounded off by the tide, I pluck it from its home, admire its every bump, curve and edge, then when I am satisfied, I place it in a small wicker basket, and continue on my way. These treasures are my way of conserving each moment of bliss. Each graceful second that passes by in this place, lives inside a seashell.