Amidst uncharted territories lie tales unsung, whispers of winds that have shaped landscapes where no compass dares tread. The lost arc of a voyage, unpenned in books, unfolded in each step that met with the earth.
Cortlandt navigated the alleys blinded by modern maps. The roads before him wove narratives in cryptic ink. Footfalls danced on cobblestones, an unscheduled rhythm, kaleidoscopically hidden in the mundane.
While casual observers drift on the surface, consumed by routines, few peer beyond. Where the lines converge and diverge, a paradox lives. Each path, a sonnet etched in shadows.
"I dreamt the land of navidations," he muttered, charting epochs on napkins, eyes wide with storm-swept views. The kind of views that drifted in sepia tones, serenading the dusk with faded operatics.
It is here we find ourselves amidst chimerical plots, their roots writhing in the tales untold, sung only by the landscape left awash in mystery.
Perhaps, in our traveler's bag: another mystery tends the fire.
Or quietly along another alley: silent voices, a crack beneath each stone.