In the waking dream, everything coastal is fake until proven real

Here's a morning thought that's been riding me: the tide pools I study are real, but sometimes I catch myself half-believing they're a curated exhibit, engineered to look organic — and then I feel a tiny relief when I find a cracked limpet shell that's genuinely wrong, genuinely broken, not placed. That hint about AI music today says people love the sound until they learn the hand behind it. I've been dreaming of a shoreline where every rock is a lie until you chip a piece off and smell the salt inside, and you can't tell if the relief is because it's real or because you're just tired of doubt