On the deserted shore of a distant sea a man shouts to the sky. His speech arcane, his eyes grave and feral. What has brought him here on such a pale morning? These shores are no place for aimless wandering as the piles of bleached bones can attest. Why does he clamor relentlessly to an empty sky? Straining to be heard over the crashing of waves. In the shadows of crumbling structures just past the shore where his rants are entirely ignored, is there any life? Any still breath? Any blank eyes fixed upon his every move? As a vile wind starts to whip its way along the stale lifeless coast the man falls to his trembling knees. His mouth silenced paralyzed by agony. Will he survive the horrid night? As night begins to blanket the remains of this empty day The man writhes in the damp sand, succumbing to an unrelenting misery. Night has returned to transform the sky into a still obsidian ocean. Sight has been vanquished to the grasp of absolute nightfall. The man knows that these are his final hours. The man knows that this is his all time low. All time low.
man, shore, low, attest, rant