Rusting, slowley, time washes by leaving marks on the shore, showing where once the tide was high, only to lessen. Wiping away the foot-prints.

The fall becomes frozen. The worms writhe in decay, as the man rots.

Decadent in its own grandiose broken plans.

Gears jamming, never hit the breaks or whats behind you just might collide. in your blind spot there be dragons…and they are closer than what they would appear to be.