It is a secluded bay, far away from the wastes and plains,held close to Mother Nature's bosom. The dull grey-green water folds lazily over itself again and againm like the folds of coarse silk. Under the harsh and beating sun the golden dust glistens, citrine gemstones sparkling. The land rises tall and imposing above the water, steep and jagged. The gold stares back at you. Vacant, cold eyes.

Looking across the bay a cove is seen, a ravenous jaw engulfing the murky depths. Weeds crawl along the ground like snakes, slimy and half-dead, stains upon a tattered canvas. Their greens are sickly, like death looms over them as they lay upon their deathbed. Unmoving. The cliffs bulge and recede, deep trails engraved into the jagged edges, intricate patterns clawing down into the improbable depths. Moss clutches at the edges, willing itself never to fall, a green, sprawling mess patched hastily by an unskilled quilter.

Mist glides over, clinging to the ground, like ghosts with their ears to the earth, a veil of grey. It twists its savage head side to side, prodding, probing with disfigured claws. Creeping. Dark blots of colour hazily blur together in the distance, twisting and turning, reshaping before the eye, a grotesque malformation, an artist unsteady with his brush. Smog bellows and belches above the sky, hideous and bloated, a by-product of greed and corpulence personified.

Dark streaks arc across an ashen sky, jagged, tearing and ripping and slashing. On the horizon blackened mountains dominate, rearing savage heads defiantly. A skull lies nestled amidst that gold, withered and fractured, scultped by unmoving hands.

And I look down upon this. I look down upon this exhibition, this piece of art. I wonder if it can be remade. I was unskilled, inexperienced. I made mistakes. I wonder as I look down upon this Earth