You lean against the tide, a shell to conch, the shell to your imagination. These are not songs of the seas, but an anthology found in the organs of trumpet fishes.
"Thought carries vibrations," whispers the nocturnal jellyfish.
In the hollow, we hear unpoetic seafoam. Is it Xerocus or the voids left by egrets? Questions linger like algae on lore.
{{shell melodies}} are heard amidst turning tides and reaching stars, itself a silent crescendo.
"Press the conch to voidness, thus closes the star's great eye," murmurs the oracle.
Quests unanswered dwell eternity within a single droplet, sometimes too a whisper. Was it Cresendo or the whispered unsung lullabies?
Meander through corridors of lost or uncharted rhythms, correspondence held between disparate eternities. Reflect on the lengths of forgotten verses.