Whispered secrets caught in the slipstream
between thoughts that lost their way, errant breezes carrying the scent
of long-forgotten summers. Can you
hear the echoes? They burrowed into seashells,
hoping for a listener, a soul willing to cradle them
in open palms.
Fingers tracing invisible lines in the sand, each grain—a memoir, each
wave—a turn of the page in unwritten atlases.
"If it wasn't for the echoes," she said, midst the echo of echoes, "Would we still hear our names
called as we drift?"
Deep dive into thought pools: sector by sector,
delta to delta, stitching narratives unraveling like
fabric caught on jagged rocks—raw edges, stories left flowing,
relentless currents reshaping purpose.