It is dark now.

The clouds are low and the sky is gray. A strong wind blows
sand each way, making it impossible to see. If it could be seen,
the waves break and the white crests beat the shore.

It is loud here.

The sand carried by the wind bellows and the ocean roars.
Beach chairs peek from under the sand and parts of illegible
signs show. On one in particular, the letters were peeling and
the metal warped. At one point, it read: Abbadon Beach, but it is hard to tell.

In this turmoil, against all odds, stands a shack.

The stilts are cracked- wood frays from each board, the roof is
broken- most of the pieces missing anyways, and the windows are shattered- glass lines the inside.

Even like this though, one thing remains untouched: the pink
paint.

In rain or sun, the pink paint shines.

As the roof pieces away and the shards shift places and the
stilts break further- the pink gleams dependably.

Without any doubts- the pink will sparkle.

Perhaps one day the pink paint will fade to match the mess
around it.

But until then, it remains the only stain on a once so colored
beach.