Gleaming in the moonlight, the unblemished sand is the perfect slate for my vitriolic complaints.
A storm-torn quill, plucked from the befouled backside of a garbage-eating gull, is my mighty sword. Digging deep into the sand, I gouge out a litney of aspersions towards those who perpetrated wrongs against me. Listing them in their entirety, eloquent in their viciousness, I impeach my offenders.
Casting doubt on their pedigree, I take particular notice of the virtue of their dam and the ambiguity of their sire. Inefficiencies in their personal hygiene are called into question, as are the insufficiencies in their intellect, culture and grace. No aspect of their hideous visage is left undefiled, no portion of their reputation is left inviolate.
As I etch my diseased rantings upon the shore, I release the infection that grips my inner peace. I can feel my calm return with each letter.
Stepping back from the encroaching sea, I watch the water wipe away my words, erasing them from the sand and my mind. I drop my quill, surrendering it too to the sea, and walk on in the dark.