In the silent symphony of the brine, where thoughts drift like unguided kelp, consider the isolation of the deep, and the phatner of existence. Don't be mistaken, for detachment is not absence, but a profound connection to the seen and unseen.
Do whispers echo in aqueous tombs, where the giants of the tides weave stories untold to voyagers anchored in echoing oblivion? Reflection in the calm depths speaks its own language, a dialect of the soul's intended silence and the mind's twisted currents.
Reach into the grasp of nothingness, and there, find everything you've forgotten under layers of sediment, beneath pelagic waves that cradle dreams. Has the sea ever cried out, or is every drop a testament to the allegory of existence slumbering in the sapphire abyss?
Converging Waves