I am obsessed with broken shells. I love their flawed, imperfect beauty. Their imperfections tell a story that unbroken, unblemished shells do not. Jagged and sharp, or worn smooth with soft edges formed by the passage of time and the power of the ocean. Soft subtle remnants of their brilliant colors or bleached white as bones left to lie in the sun. Baring their inner spiraled hearts, battered and broken, tossed aside and finally washed ashore. There they lay exposed in their beautiful brokenness until I, damaged and imperfect myself, find them.