(no subject)
Standing on the ramp leading off to the right of the road into the sand. The sand is bland and boring with one or two little chunks of shrubbery, each consisting of between three and five blades of grass. The rest of the weather, tire, and now, boot-worn road leads on and up. The asphalt is so faded, it almost appears light blue, and the stripes that were once canary yellow are now white with flecks of black. The barriers that make this strip of tar a road are battered and broken, here and there, you'll see the deep browninsh-red hue of the rusted metal rods that have kept them around for so long. The road continues past the ramp for about ten feet before it begins traveling upwards towards what was once a highway, but now serves as more of a wall. All the roads are void of any cars, buses, trucks, or vans, as they have been for quite some time. On the other side of the highway is a lighthouse, it is painted with thick black and white stripes, the bottom half is hidden, but it is topped with a small room holding the beacon, all of the glass walls framed in black metal, and the very tip is slightly pointed. The light inside is neither on, nor spinning. The sky is filled with nothing but clouds. They are a light grey, but the shadows they cast on one another are black. They slowly move across the sky because of the wind, not gail-force, but enough to blow your hat off. The light filtered through this atmosphere seems to be lacking all color. It attempts to drain the hues and shades from everything it touches, and it almost succeeds. There is a group of boys and men marching in four straight lines, each six long. They are heading up th road and are a third of the way up the incline leading to the highway. All of them are wearing their boots of different shades and levels of wear. Their pants are a color somewhere between grey and brown, that may have once been white and since been covered in filth and stains, or black and been worn from use. The coats they wear are what appears to be dark navy blue, they're held closed by a thick leather strap or belt, held tight by a buckle that has long since lost it;s shine. The collars stand straight up, covering the majority of their necks, save a little in the front and on the sides around their jaws. The packs they wear are impossible to describe, all of them being different, each one carries whatever they could fit and hopefully, everything they will need. Each boy or man is topped by a hat, deep grey and snug, except at the top where it is flat. All you can hear is the wind, it does not drown out all other noise, it's as if it has washed it away, there is simply no other noise to be heard.