Shore
The view from the shore was glorious, Absolem had to admit. He settled back upon his mushroom and blew a careful ring of smoke from his pipe, observing as the pristine view was warped in its wake. He hummed thoughtfully, divining some bit of foresight, of knowledge, from the shades and chiaroscuro as he always did. He could not explain it, not even to himself.
The dark waves lapped at the shoreline, eating it away gradually. From where he sat, it often appeared that the rest of the world was growing or shrinking or otherwise shifting, though, so he found himself unconcerned. He was able to watch the sea only on such rare days as this, that came rarer than a wind or a flying pig, yet more often than a Jabberwock. They were to be treasured. Thus, he took another careful puff on his well-tended pipe and released a rush of smoke, shaping with patience and practice until the view was again warped, but for the better.
The sea expanded before his eyes and he sighed in content as the waves seemed to swirl beyond and within his breath. It was such a rare happening and he wanted the prismatic shore to take all of his attention.
