In the depths where sunlight fears to tread, lies the mind of the ocean: a silent saga of eons past. The water, a whisperer of secrets. It speaks in waves, crashing into shores of oblivion. What is the hollow ark if not a vessel of thoughts adrift in the void? It carries no mortals, yet is laden with every soul's ponderance.
Beyond its wooden frame, it mirrors the heart. Why do we build arks in the expanse of emptiness? Is it to shelter from storms, or to find purpose in the perpetual flux? A migration not of the body, but of the consciousness.
Consider the barnacles that cling to these constructs. They are parasites of thought, feeding on currents of introspection until a final disembarkation, where all entanglements dissolve. We echo through their existence, though they know us only as distant reflections.
Navigate to the next abyss: Visage of Waves, or drift further into the thoughts Cape of Silencio.