In the sand he squares out symbols of his love from the vague memories of youth and thinks, "These are the first sparkings of the soul." What score marks that? What equation poses it? How is it proved? He attempts Einstein first, switches to Bach, then Schrodinger, then Mozart. The dread repetitions of Glass might make mention. In this way the beach becomes a manuscript of garbled memories, like a parchment overwritten by many minds across centuries. The sun sets, pink washes down the shoreline as the ocean stills in gentle sighs to a glass-green translucence through which a shifting bottom may be spied, but not touched, where great silhouetted sea creatures levitate within waves undulating in rhythm with the oscillating murmuration of restful giants asleep upon the ocean floor, their slumber stirring the world from afar. His footsteps become part of the score, and he dances on his loose equations adding crotchet and quavers with flicks and scuffs. Soft beneath the pads of feet washed clean in the briny, warm still even as the sky now becomes all different streaks of liminal adieu; indigo, crimson, violet, and azure, and a haze of salt veiling off the long curve of coastline that arches like a half-smile upon the musings of his mind in memory, a symphony of science, a tabling of emotion, the synching of heart in beat with the endless spinning of stars pivoted around a heart frozen in love.