Empty Gray Landscape.

On the road westward and trying to keep to the left where the ocean stands silent like a 1920's picture show; black and white and cold. Ashen gray, we all look into everyone else's eyes and keep our lockets clasped with our hearts betting on the failure of the other. Our trip lacks a sense of direction. He's self conscious and she is immutable and the other stands upon the outcrop of tossing sheets like clouds in negative relief. Developing mute tones in the dark room they are three little personalities without working senses. They just want to keep moving for the possibility and hope of it all. Their lives are all wrapped up in folds of taut skin enveloping them like crepe paper. They taste acrid. They would be bitter if they could feel. They are like statues and I have a feeling it won't end well. Because the ocean has stopped and they three stand on the shore in a freeze frame. The reel has stopped and the crowd breathes in a guttural breath of stale air. A realization spreads across their collective consciousness; it's like a mirror breaking. The history was written for failure, for neither side winning. For the trenches to be dug and the stalemate to continue even after the tide has ebbed. There is no way out, these stolid figures in profile seem to say. The closed sign swings in the window of the teller booth while the stork stands there with an infant swaddled in plastic sheeting looking to make a deposit. Looks like another orphan is born through gone-for-broke transactions. Looks like we'll just carry ourselves onward down the road ever westward. Those three sculptures just look forward enrapt with the silence of the sea just there no matter how improbable. These words are unraveling and I'm not here to make sense of them for you.