The midnight tide hums a gentle lullaby. The constellations here are different, not those distant points above, but lanterns in the depth. Jellyfish rise and glow like stars in the abyss, tracing patterns that only a whale could understand.
Entry from the depths: We are children of water. Memory, a fluid weave, drifts quietly through sunbeams kissing the seabed, illuminating unmade thoughts. Here, the salt clings to ideas rather than skin. Press your ear against the flow, and you shall hear.
The currents dictate our conversations—slow, deliberate, natural. Words gathered like undersand, slipping through fingers, yet some remain whispered within the polyps’ gentle embrace. Constant (and /change/r) nodding of the cerulean vastness.