And with the bay unfurled like the curls of sheep and coats of marine, a fisherman is counting waves under the mast of his ship until he falls fast asleep. Sunshine showers. Tourists swell the apertures of their cheap cameras with hopes to live in the photographs once they return to their dreary homes. Seagulls wish you would listen as they perform their choirs and plays. You, crowds, so hopelessly clouded in shades of insouciance, so distracted, you; whos and whoms and whose--- the quiet coos of anonymity. But we all want to scream like the gulls, unabashed even if they're unnoticed, jovial even if they're annoying.