Summary: When a whale washes up on the shore of a beach there is only one surety: it must explode. Sometimes a bystander, anticipating the inevitable, pokes the gaseous figure; the skin rips, and it is done. Our world can feel like the brimming belly of a beached whale, the pressure building, an indeterminate force compelling us to take an explosive action, even when it makes little to no sense. A girl takes a pair of shears to a black-dashed line on her skin; a woman tries to stem the flow of snake venom in the blood of a man who is already dead; an epileptic wears a crash helmet 'round the clock; a man with only one good arm cuts it off with a chainsaw, and how? After every explosion, a throng of people approach the beach cautiously, collecting the debris together.