The schools of thought, drifting like sardines in silver shoals, carry echoes of red corals crumbling to sand. I heard it whispered in the haze—a truth, or perhaps a myth, soaked into barnacles and washed ashore, where forgotten mermaids weave tales in seaweed rhymes.
Beneath layers of salt, the abyss flickers in cobalt flashes, a sanctuary of forgotten suns and tacit sirens. You step, uninvited, into twilight pockets full of buoyant fears. No lantern wielded, just the phosphorescent glow of ideas long submerged, restless beneath the ocean floor's embrace.
Are the octopus arms a language—a braille of curled thoughts, etched in shells and time-worn tides? Ink drips into watercolor truths, smudging the narrative; a history of drowned lullabies echoes in the deep darkness, punctured only by the heartbeat of a single, solitary star.
Interlude: it seems waves have names, each a syllable in an ancient tongue, charting courses across sandy epochs of the dreaming sea. Remember to drink the ocean air, they say—an elixir for both sleep and waking.
Wander to the sands of time or lose yourself in secret grottoes, where whispers take shape.