The rock of the land meets the cold waters of the ocean. Grass sits silent on top of the coastline, drinking in the golden sunlight. The cliffs in the background are out of focus, the sharpness of the waves breaking on the jagged rocks has been lost. Clarity has been forsaken for impressionism. Broad brushstrokes paint the solid bedrock of the picture, where it is the little details that matter and not the great hulking monolith that the scene captures. The foreground mimics the background. There is no meaning imbued in the photograph, no central image to focus the eye, nor no human actor to engage the viewer. There is nothing but the silence and the stillness of the scene, of the grass that will never grow taller, of the sand that will never be blown away by invisible winds.
This is a landscape in miniature, where a thousand footprints have already been left and a thousand more wait to be made.
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