In an estuary painted with the hues of impending dusk, driftwood sculpts the surface tension of time, an artifact of lives lost to seconds in the cosmic current. A woman walks barefoot through wet sands, her footprints whispering the echoes of voyages uncharted by the stars.
The trees once spoke a language only decipherable by the wind. Now, assembled from the fragments of forgotten trails, they record stories in the rustle of leaves that quantum entanglement has jailed from human understanding.
"Her name is wanderlust," it seems to say, as the horizon ripples in shades of what might have been.
"Her name is wanderlust," it seems to say, as the horizon ripples in shades of what might have been.
Masks of bark and blush hide the face of unknown gods in shelters that exist just out of focus—a sanctuary for the dreamers who can bend time like silk over a lost child's gaze. Yet, beyond the lucent veil of daydreams, the equation of existence swells with paradoxes tangled in the driftwood's heart.