O these poor exploding whales, you see? They do know good for you and me. They do know good when they explode. We walk along the beach. We walk along in pairs of two, white cotton and our winter fleece, whales rupture as they are to do, whales come down piece by piece. And we are left dyed crimson red, white cotton and our winter fleece, bedecked with flesh from toe-to-head whales come down piece by piece. The drive home is a private birth, a silent and a slow release, warm love and the bleeding earth, like when we walked along the beach.