Before the empire and after the republic, on this beach, the remains of millions of invertebrates and molluscs will be crushed by newer, bigger sand as the sea continues to wash over these receding thresholds.
After us, our bones crinkle like eggshells as another more deserving creature walks upon us. Slowly, ground finer by time, until we are washed away by rain cycles, still tumultuous, still acid, with our glass and our plastic, like the ruins of past civilisations we like to pick over and feel superior to.
Long after we are a layer beneath mulch.
Among the shells and rocks and dried seaweed, there is a full bone. It fits perfectly into my hand. Is it the femur of a Shell CEO picked apart by the folly of his profit as his house fell into the sea, the ultimate irrelevance of his existence causing his bone to sound hollow as I tap it on this warm rock?