Navigate not by map, but by memory,
wherein the stars trace the outline of your solitude,
drifting on a raft of thoughts, woven with the sand.
The logs whisper ancient lullabies, secrets
cradled by the ripples of forgotten dreams.
Log Day 17: Consider the nebulae
like scattered ashes of untold narratives; detached
yet intimately woven into the fabric of night.
Each twinkle—a promise, each void—a question.
When the moon brushes against the horizon,
it murmurs the names of lost constellations,
the ones unseen by unprepared eyes.
We sail this ethereal sea, searching,
perhaps for ourselves, perhaps for home.