Sometimes, the moon whispers in your ear. It talks about tides not just in oceans but in blood and thought. Last night, amidst sheets of blue and silence, the pull was palpable.
You awake, and sentences evaporate like dew, leaving patterns on the mind, hints of the possible. Scribbles and echoes navigating winding paths.
The light through crescents share secrets, eyes half-closed to minty disbelief. A world wraps itself only to stretch once more in lunar embrace. These days, whispers become locale literature.
Yet as the moon drifts, so does reason. Charts? Forgotten. Cycles? Abandoned for fleeting memories pasted over with affection and distance.
Hereby marked: Divination or disillusionment, tread with calloused care where reflections align.