Upon cracked, tectonic earth, a row boat sits on a ledge of sand, still unclaimed. Brackish barnacles line the boat in constellational formations, sometimes the letters of a foreign language, other times with some pictorial purpose. But it remains as no means of transportation. No water, nor line can pull it to a nearby harbor. Instead, it lies as shelter for foxes and microbes that feast on crustacean remains lining the wooden surface. Although faded and corroded, its name is still somewhat distinguishable: The Silhouette. Whatever its purpose, it is now a grave, encasing dried skeletal remains. And it is some refuge for the loneliest of travelers.