The whispers ripple across the waves of time, far more poignant than anything solid, a diaphanous truth gliding just out of reach.
Longitude - where the sun's grip loosens, a mosaic of sounds, resonating in cadences of forgotten histories and cosmic lullabies.
They say at the prime meridian, the echo of laughter lingers longest, climbing the silvered stairs of a moonlit night.
Imagine standing on a cusp, oceans of sound stretching to the horizon, each note a beacon, each pause a beacon turned black.
Follow the starlit echoes Traverse southwards into the silence Embrace the void's resonance