And so the old man walked down to the sea to see the surf, as it ran through the jagged channels created by the rock that had sprung from the earth like black molars, long before the courtesy of man’s memory.
And the old man stood upon the rocks, his soles prodded and poked by the stone, looking down at the salty froth that rushed before him, crashing over rock pools and crevasses. And the old man spoke to the sea once more, as he looked out to the horizon, the sky grey with a familiar complacency that spoke rumours of storms undecided.
And the sea did not reply in the way that he wanted, each ebb and flow growing in size at they came and went. And the old man did not weep, although he so wanted to, speaking to the sea once more over the callous caws of the gulls, that flew above and rode the waves like snowy buoys. And yet, it was as if the sea laughed in response, yet no words were spoken, save the crash of water against rock that rose like salty lava.
And so the old man clambered forth, downward to the sea, his gnarled skin scraping against the serrated planes of the rocks, as he descended...