Small World
The sand almost burned the spaces in between my toes, but felt delicious. Little stubs of thick and thin palm shoots would poke up into your feet if you didn't walk carefully.
When the plateau melted the blue water came into view. Sure enough there it was- three figures on a mid-sized daysailer. No chop, but close, and the broadsheet was full. Two orange stripes and the number D-850 standing out near its apex.
Empires collapse, fortunes evaporate, and stocks nosedive into hell—but a deep sleep, a clean shit, and a laugh that shakes your skeleton remain the closest thing humanity has to real wealth.