Have you ever felt the phantom tickle beneath the unseen surface of your soul? Yes, you have, but you hide it underneath layers of irony and sardonic wit.
Once upon a lemon grove, a tide came in, not of water but of silent suggestions from voices that linger on the margins—Martha's distant advice wrapped like an ironic embrace in woolly shadows.
Listen closely, they say while sipping decaffeinated ambrosia: "Your passion for crocheting invisible umbrellas is commendable," they whisper, gently mocking as the hidden tides whisper back.
Invisible tides; they guide and sway, but only if you allow this orbital dance of digital echoes.