"Out here, beneath the pulse of light, I hear whispers between layers of silence," said the dwarf pirate, his beard twinkling as though the stars have chosen it to be their vessel, seabed tales etched in liquid ink.
The constellation you spot above unsheathes itself beneath your dreams—a dancer caught in tidal rhythm, anvil to the currents, like sybils weeping mirth direct into your soul's ear.
Late-night myths become jammed melodies a band of cephalopods forge; tendrils brush against the memory of moonlit escapades, echoing onwards into a world you almost recall.
It begins with a peal—you brace for a thunder unheard of, waves perpetual and azure. The helm waits patiently, rust swallows its laughter. Follow where ripples die away, because that's where the next secret sleeps...quiet.
Indeed, always in the clutch of an unseen knowing pause buried beneath waves.