In seashells, the whispers of distant waves **speak**. Are they ocean’s songs, locked within the embrace of time? Oratories turned into artistry.
Does reality ripple exactly as dreams deliberate within their realm of unreason? Or fuzz beyond comprehension, like murmurs in an infinite corridor?
If echoes remain unbound in consciousness, must we hunt ourselves amid reflections refusing to quieten?
The conch: ancient trumpeter holds cryptic messages, not Omar Khayyam noonday absinthe romance chill, but **existential chamomile**.