Lighthouse circulates strands of illumination through fog plumes, dressing the rocky-shores of anywhere USA in a strobe of smoky flash-bangs. Fans of Aubrey Hepburn approach the shore, wearing masks of her face, holes punctured at ear level, filled and fixed with noose knots composed from fragile twine to hold the disguise in place. They dig out pebbles, buried at ground level. Wet earth embeds underneath their fingernails, few of them transfer the mud to their clothes, persist on excavating even as their cohorts emphasize the disgusting act of dislodging dirt onto designer duds. Relaying comments like, “our queen would never do something so vile!”
After accumulating a handful of flat pebbles the fans skip them across the water, designating ripples which collide as throws continue.
The keeper of the lighthouse watches the fans through binoculars.
He leans to his right, whispers to a headless mannequin, “look at ‘em. What’s with humans? Always thinking the answers are in the water. But we know better! Right!”
He places his arm around the mannequin’s shoulder.
“We’ve got it all figured out! Here on land! Yeah. Being lifeless is what life’s about.”