Angered waves eat away at the shore. The wood on this floor creeks like slamming doors. Even the moors are afraid. When the waves quieten you can her she screams and laughter of babaling guls. Sounds like peaking at skulls. Everyone this evening is dressed feverous in yards of wool. To keep the live waves out. Every room decorated in shells and wood. And in every hollow shell carries the sound of salt. Listening and copying the waves.