Seashells hang by the bay window of my seven-story terracotta pagoda. Bits of shell from gastropods and bivalves, riches of the deep, strung together to a thin piece of bamboo to form a pretty-looking wind chime.
I met a twisty-tongued lady selling her beach-pickings on the seashore last Sunday. I thought to myself: Well, isn't it ever-so strange to be selling stuff I could easily pick myself by the shore? So I asked this strange twisty-tongued lady who stood by the seashore why I should purchase her very ordinary-looking seashells. Lo and behold, from her turquoise-colored eyes, I saw a young boy encrusted with corals from top to toe.
Oh my, was my undignified reply.
Hello, said a gurgling voice, obviously coming from the crustacean-covered child, and who might you be?
Just a passerby person who might potentially be a purchaser, I said when I had sufficiently recovered enough, and who might you be?
My name is Peter, Peter Piper. Would you like to have a look at some of our goods, sir?
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