Tethered to your sunburned hand, a kite floats peacefully in the early Summer breeze. Waves roll upon the tranquil beach like a old dog moseys to and from the slipper of a wrinkled skinned retiree. Palms shuffle and thin wheeled bicyclists glide. Your kite remains undeterred by subtle shifts in the onshores and your day creeps like a moon tugs.
As the sun begins its decent, a thick blanket of gray tumbles upon shore carrying a dense patch of gloom and howling winds. Your bare arms shiver and your eyes bug to the unforeseen alarm. Your kite takes a sudden dive sending boardwalk canines into protective snarls. Nightmarish gusts send chills down your spine and launches your kite skyward. Its wings whip in the hellish winds and plastic pieces are yanked into the distance. Your string is taut and it painfully stretches. Your kite becomes a hazard. It loses all decency and becomes tangled in Machiavellian debauchery. Its key no longer is harmonious and its sound is that of a different instrument. With a sigh for today, but a smile for a sunnier tomorrow, you cut the string.
What strings have you cut?
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