Sea birds swoop overhead, shadows in the ochre sky. Waves pull back, retreating from the shore as if to shame the figure slumping over the sand. Here, a man sits; an empty bottle nearby, traces of rum line his unshaven jaw. His navy coat is strewn across the land, lost to the depths of the earths.

A tall, toasty-warm cup of vanilla hazelnut (with sprinkles of cinnamon) sits snugly in my chilled hands. An ode to joy, the speakers festively play.

Perhaps it is incidental. Perhaps it is the Sister Fates Three, their game of Death at play. Perhaps it is the seven-billion, lethargic pairs of eyes set vacuously on a single CRT television set.