Hiss... Crackle... Burble... The gentle murmurs of an underwater karaoke not held by anyone heard but seem coherent in the trance of deluge. Suspended whispers of irony bubble through the aqueducts of despair, competing with the mute symphony in your brain.

Here, amidst the stagnant glow of electronic fish, lies the paradox. Beneath the surface, is it aqua claustrophobia or an embrace of liquid irony? Each droplet a reminder of the static noises, how they yearn to be understood, not just translated but felt, in a quiet longing, like a cry for help written in invisible ink.

Beneath, the reflections of sunken chairs—maybe they had stories too, of once occupied spaces, now algae-draped phantoms of yesterday's social gatherings.

Feel free to explore the labyrinth of silence; every gurgle is a guide, every wave a memory jostling for attention. Don't swim too deeply; the echoes of forgotten laughter can be overwhelming, like a reincarnation of bubblegum pop trapped in an airlock.