Lunch at the Beach (The Sand Keeps Piling Up)

Lately, every day Martin goes to the beach for lunch. He eats a few bites of his pathetic hand-made sandwich, with its runny tomato on top of sad baloney, then throws himself down face first in the sand, and cries. A bum who lives at the beach has gotten used to this routine and shouts encouragement from a sand dune away, "Yes buddy! That's it! Let it out! You're crying for the WHHOOLE world!" Martin pretends not to hear the bum. He gathers up the sand around him, to get comfortable, like gathering up covers and pillows. He does this as his tears dry. He does not remember, but he did this same repetitive soothing arm motions when he was a small infant. It made him feel better then, and it still does now. Meanwhile, sand is piling up everywhere, in Martin's pockets, his car, the office...there are small traces, trails of sand to the coffee machine, to Martin's front door...his coworkers don't know what to do, because he won't talk. Martin doesn't know what to do. So the sand keeps piling up.