The waves crash over the cracked foot path, submerging the rusty bemoaned ladder under salty sea. Behind the cackles raise up as the two philosopher kings shed their clothes and walk down the tiny pier. To the west a lonely road gently makes its way through the emerald hills. To the east, the town of summer cottages abandoned to the cold breeze of September. To the west the Atlantic, the states, home. To the east a far off horizon, an ancient isle, the land of our fathers. And in front of us a rough sea, and a blue sky, an endless view of blue and white. We stand there, he and I, naked and crownless kings. We stand there, on a the precipice of an abyss, that beckons with open arms. We stand there for but a moment and then we leap. Enveloped by the sea, a baptism of sorts. Brought back up through the waves. Born again. New men.
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