We walked on the beach in the hot afternoon sun as the sea had reached its high point of receding with dead fish puked in disgust from its fat belly and a few brown mollusks, still sleeping in shells. The sea seemed to say nothing much in metaphor.
The sands torched feet, yet opened a soft wetness to a mile-long series of footsteps sinking as prints writing our history for erasing by the next wave. But still the sea did nothing to suggest metaphors.
A fishing boat in sight was not much of metaphor nor a ship lazing in giant afternoon drowsiness, that stayed moored to the sky with a fat deep anchor.
Looking for metaphors we were lost in a sea of words.