Tessellate me.

I want to trace tessellations in the sand and know that the repetition I make is no smaller, no bigger, not prettier than the very first. I want to feel the coarse grains against my weathered tips, make imprints I can see in a blink and then miss in the next. I want to flit from edge to edge, tracing up every single corner left to explore. I want to know what it feels like to be the last pattern in the sand. Or the first. Or be sandwiched. But what does it matter, for when the tide comes, we will all have to start tracing again?