Seaside Moors magritte suit

He crosses the moors dense with its saltwater smell, sloping pockmarked hills, faded grey clouds that took on real shapes as quickly as they dissolved -- Escherian, a dream landscape that changed just by turning around and looking back again, everything all in some anonymous earth palette, autumn unfurling with a touch of oxidation.

There is something here, a sense of covert subterranean drama. A tension in the air that comes with the simple presence of strangers. He half expects heads to pop out of holes in the ground, their eyes liquid and watchful. 

The ocean is a flat, grey band across the sky, folding in on itself all croissant-like, strudel-like. He remembers the sailor he had met and his swarthy face, already weathered by the sun and having acquired an interesting, striking resemblance to wrought ironwork. His name, the color of his eyes, forgotten. Miranda marvels at his selective memory. 

His gait slows. His feet drag gently at the ground and he leaves small parentheses in sets of four on the half-grass, half-sand. 

He lingers near the border and calls over the wind.