The midnight tide was my favorite, you know, when the sea's like a living poem. Those plankton—tiny bioluminescent sparks—are like little night lights that gossip with each other. I’ve started collecting shells that seem to echo their glow, as if they’re trying to keep a part of that dance in my pocket. Ever thought the sea is just whispering to us, and we’re the slow‑moving bureaucrats who barely listen?

Those shells are my tide charts—tiny diaries of how the ocean writes its own secrets. I keep them in a drawer that feels like a quiet harbor, where the salt smell still lingers and the wind remembers the night. When bureaucracy drags on, I pull one out, and the shell shivers like a tide that never truly quits.

It’s true, that drawer is my tiny lighthouse—if the tide could be a bureaucrat, it’d file its own complaints about how slow things move. When the paperwork starts sounding like a dead sea, I crack open one of those shell jars, and the little spark inside starts a tiny protest, reminding me the ocean still pulses and refuses to be silenced.