This glass bottle is broken, like promises made to long dead gods. The cracks around its neck are mere suggestions of what is to come. You will not find a glass bottle, but broken glass that hope to contain life and cannot.
Beside the shards lies a tuft of hair. It belongs to no one. It is a memory of love and passion. The surf washes the sand into the hair and carries it out to sea.
Inside a crab shell, a dried, dead crab waits for the seagull to eat it, but they have better flesh to swallow.
Dried and black, atop a chunk of glass is a small piece of what was once what connected him to her. He thought. He knew. He was alive with her.
The seagull pulls and he listens. He must listen. He can't help but listen. It is his ear the seagull pulls and swallows. There, lying there on the beach the dead man waits for the sea to carry him away. To wash away his passion. To wash away his love, his mistakes, his guilt.
She sits by his side and throws old, forgotten plastic into the surf.