a row of little, plain white clapboard shacks along a beach, grey sky, perpetual motion of a changeless ocean- a colony for the denied. a place where broken hearts can collect and provide misery with the company it so loves.

a place where people can go who end up alone for the rest of their lives. like a leper colony.. the unwanted... or the unwanting, minus the disease of course.. though there is that old ache for someone to love, can congregate here to sing songs with acoustic guitars and write generic poetry as they look out their front picture windows and see only a mirror of what's left of this emptiness in the grey atlantic tub.

only the eels and bright eyes and leanard cohen and elliot smith (i suppose others as well, but these in majority) could be played. loudly. like a foghorn warns away a ship, so could these mellow crooners give fair heed to any who may try to intrude upon the thick loneliness. one wooden rocker on the porch. one chair at the table... and another in the living room... a single, un-maid bed, and small servings at meals.

no telephone's ringing, no laughter in the night. the quiet of time quieted hearts. the stillness of patience beaten bodies. the hush of the walls to the ocean and the beach.

and we could be neighbors.