I remember the days that we were lead to the lipstick kiosk. Spartan summer days, stilled in blue. The penninsula grew as the sand lapped the shores and then departed, leaving the residue of moments' silt and garbage from the bay and the boats bobbing towards the horizen. Nights were games and the watchful eye of the police. We saw our friends led away, led astray. My winnings were spent in the market, and the lipstick girls called out to us. We were here though, like the sand and the sea. Programmed to leave our siesta and maybe the memory of soft lips on her behind.