The sea was a rich blue that day, thick and cold, inviting in a sense that it was the water and the water is always inviting. There had been a car just last month, with four teenagers seated within it. Ridiculously, the one sober one among them let one of the drunks drive. He should have been enraged at the prospect of the inebriated fool taking command of the vehicle, regardless of the fact that the drunk put up a fight over driving. He should have been incensed that the driver would argue with him, insisting on driving, hell-bent it seemed on killing not only himself, but taking the lives of his friends as well. The weak fool who had shown such intelligence by not drinking at all that evening showed stupidity then by letting the drunks take control, and he died along with everyone but the driver when that same car went off the road and down into that cold, inviting sea. The driver survived the accident, so that he could feel remorse and grief the rest of his life, which wasn't long, considering he shot his own brains out not even a year later, out of guilt.

The sea was flat that day, disinterested in the affairs of the world, thinking to itself that life was very boring and simple. That day, a solitary white boat cruised gently along, utilizing its simple outboard motor to traverse the calm waters. The pilot, a young man, tanned and content, stared out at the infinite sea as it lay indolent and impartial before him, remarking at how large it was. It seemed to stretch beyond his capacity to traverse it, and he wondered then at what life had in store for him, something so much smaller and insignificant than this sea. He sat in his little boat, his mind far away from any of life's dangers and cares, and he contemplated, he thought, and he pondered. He did so much of these activities for so long that his mind almost hurt in the literal sense. Then, starting again his outboard motor, he took one last look out to the broad and flat sea. Afterwards, he turned around and headed back for shore, having not resolved anything in his head, though he had thought long and hard and had thoroughly exhausted himself in the process.

The sea was angry that day, throwing itself violently on the pitiful gray sand, lashing out against the helpless earth, reaching as far as it could on solid ground before being broken up by its own wrath and foolish will to do harm to the continent. The simple blue car, relatively old as cars go, though still in its infancy compared to the lifespan of a turtle, pulled up to the howling and raging sea. An old man got out, his gray fedora instantly ripped from his head by the winds, and he faced the tempest and felt the sea's raw anger beat towards him. He shut the door, rain and sea spray in his face, his eyes squinted enough to protect themselves, if only for a few moments longer. He walked toward the malevolent surf, the waves huge, the sand cowering underneath the abuse it received, and the old man smiled vaguely. "I haven't seen you like this in years," he said to the sea. All there was in the earth then was gray; everyone, everything gray. There was no evil. There was no good. There was merely a belligerent harmony between the two, a world of endless gray. The old man spread his arms to this vast gray, and the sea rose up and took him.