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Water has such a cleansing quality. If only it might have the exact lasting impact of a Jackson Pollack's seemingly dismissive splash of white acrylic in addition to a previously unencumbered canvas. Instead, its art is diminished by each resurfacing wave and from the scraps of the ocean's debris that it leaves behind. I stood along on the coastal, forlorn beach, along with a rain squall was wiped out to sea with a cold, unfriendly nor'eastner. Maybe reminiscent of the days as another string soccer player - not could withstand the effects of the zebra stripped ball as it pummeled off my head, which makes me a ideal candidate for extended spells of bench warming, while some obtained the lovers and the hot cheer leader in bed after the match - I kicked a virtually empty beer bottle whose Budweiser label had been largely shredded from the competitor's glass surface from the relentless wash of a churning ocean. As the bottle flip-floped throughout the beach to the ocean, I looked external in the huge open, black water - infinite and haunting in its liquid world. Residual beer blended with salt water spilled from the roiling missile because it skirted the sand prior to landing on the peaking crest of a retreating wave. Once saddled, it piggybacked into deeper waters. The hedonistic Summer audiences had disappeared for the most part from this New Jersey's play ground, except for my solitary figure and a couple of abstract silhouettes in the distance who dared, from my vantage point, skeletal corpses resurrected by a long forgotten coastal boat mess. Except for rushing storm clouds overhead and the dying breath of this nor'eastner, my continuation were along in the wet sand - my pick and that I had no regrets. I am and always have been a lone individual. I can only take this muc...