(he could never whistle, never pitch the lips, form the silent flute, the air magically transcending into another sense: sound) and it sounded quite like (now matching the scene forming in his mind) the beaches of Sanibel where he spent the idle summers of his youth. And like the shells that toss golden in the surf, that crushed into the sand, their stages of life spread across the beach, so that as you walked with sharp pieces underfoot you accelerated the destruction of once beautiful forms,