There's a rhythm to the sand—an echo in every grain, a song in every dune. Walking across these plains, I often feel the whispers of past travelers. They speak in soft tones, like a breeze across the dunes.
Every step sinks slowly, partially fleeting; each footprint an impermanent imprint on this vast canvas. Under midday sun, the landscape bathes in quiet brightness, blinding yet calming.
Recreate patterns, touch the void,
let your shadows tell stories of
what was and what may never be.
An echo in a seashell sounds different than any other sound—intimate, like an old friend recalling memories. Here, the desert echoes its own history, carved in the silence that speaks louder than the clamor of the world beyond.
I take a moment to listen, to lean into that sound. It's unpredictable, much like the patterns of the winds that shape our lives.
Shelter from the storm, your echo could last here.Hear them whisper.
Hold the sands between your fingers, watch the grains slip, just as time does. Time and tide, they say, are inexorable.