Ancient is the hag who sits at the edge of the shoreline. She gazes, with her smoky eyes, out upon the horizon. She waits, impatiently, fidgeting uncomfortably. She fears that what she seeks she shall not find and without it she'll never know peace.
The crone clings to an ideal which has long since become grown over with the hard shelled barnacles of the salty seas. No longer can it ride the frenzied surf. It must crawl along far below, upon the ocean's floor, for it is no longer buoyed by the power of relevance.
Still the withered one waits and the weary idol drags itself ever closer.
