The sky looks like it’s thinking about violence.
Not cinematic violence. Not the slow motion hero shot nonsense. The real kind. The kind that does not care if you are ready, if your leash is waxed, if your head is right. The kind that has been doing this since before our species figured out how to stand upright and invent despair.
The light, or the lack of it. This is not golden hour, soft focus redemption. This is fluorescent interrogation room light dragged across the surface of the planet. Nothing flattering. Nothing forgiving. Just texture. Just consequence. You can almost hear the wind chewing on the edges of things.
There is a specific kind of person who walks toward weather like this. Not thrill seekers. That combination of words are too cute. It is more like a quiet refusal to stay dry and safe while something enormous is happening five hundred yards out. A stubborn belief that getting worked over by something bigger than you can bring about a form of clarity.
Four Mile Beach is no postcard nonsense. It is a mood swing, a threat, a dare. And these two silhouettes, small, temporary, absolutely replaceable, step forward.
That is the whole story, really. The sky loads the gun. The ocean pulls the trigger. And we, brilliant idiots that we are, keep volunteering to stand in front of it, just to feel something honest hit back.