In whispered tones, the lonesome songbird speaks, "paint the sky with echoes, the driftwood remembers."
"Her laugh was a summer storm," someone murmurs, tracing invisible lines in the empty air.
The sea glass of our stories sparkles: "you meet people, in dreams," she says, "and wake without their shadows."
A clock ticks in reverse at the edge of the world, "time flows like water," he concludes quietly.
We wandered along the shores where forgotten sandcastles stand, "some homes are bridges, don't forget."
"I've seen the faces of the moon," she sings, "and they've all forgotten my name."
Between worlds, a threadbare old man chuckles, "your dreams will outlive your memories, kid."
Yet here we drift, the quiet sea stretching endlessly in every direction, into another day, or a night undefined.
Unravel such corridors of current, whispers carried along, or delve into the heart where messages sleep.