Kopfkino

The sound of the waves grew louder as the teal blue streak of metal roared up the incline onlooking the shore.  The sky set apart from the deep blue by its monsoon-grey contained no evidence of the sun. Gusts of wind carrying sea salt were shot upwards by the hillside rock and into the open window of the 1985 Chevy Impala.  The hunk of metal moved with an overly listless speed, flaunting its elegance at every bend leading up to the lighthouse.  Waves eternally rose and fell onto the same shores with the same sand no matter how morbidly stagnant their view would stay for eternity. On their side of the hill ran a continuous steep black granite cliff on which no life grew whatsoever, except for the places where the narrow concrete road carved through.  Faded white supports and a rusted barbed wire ran along the length of the road and were the only things set apart from the monotone colours of the ridge and the heavy skies. The beach spanned only a few yards in width and was the only thing