on the shoreline, minions of dead masters stand begging for rain, exciting their souls with glossolalia.
darkness comes and goes and wars rage and the sea brings other bodies to be resurrected and wait for nothing. they come together to try and convince themselves of meanings various and contradictory, disowning unremembered lives left behind and mistakes made on another plane.
staring, and the sun fills their eyes and washes out the pupils and irises and blind, they listen and speak but never understand. they stand shoulder to shoulder and far apart, structurally unsound, a stagnant experiment the living forgot though each is dedicated to their task and doesn't pause for breath or wander. the sounds are carried away by an unmoving breeze. the sounds fall from their pale, cracked lips and drown lashed by seaweed.
coherence comes in bursts from above though the role played most often is that of eavesdropper, the words of their gods as empty as the static on a dead television. and they shout for acknowledgement, but their words are stones thrown at the clouds, and they fly away on unknown vectors, and the rain never comes.