Across the whispering sands, the tides of forgotten yesterdays pull and recede, echoing through the corridors of memory, shaping cliffs in the mind. In these lonely halls, where light seldom spills, footfalls seem heavy—an anchor wrapped in chains.
What colors are the thoughts, drifting upon these waves? Have they eroded, become something other beneath the sun, shark-ridden and azure?
The quiet reflections feel like sea glass—sharp edges softened by constant brushing, yet still holding the whispers of a storm that never broke upon them. And so we keep walking, hands outstretched to touch the horizon.
Where do we wander when echoes fade, and visions fragment like shattered reflections? We gather fragments, mosaics of other age's dreams, tucked away in tide-borne shells.
Driftwood and HistoryEphemeral Passwords of the Ocean