In the year 2047, when gulls cried sideways, there arose a cartographer of souls, mapping incessantly the contours of dreams at the meeting edge of sky and sea.
He unearthed a vestige, a letter in a bottle nursed by centuries of tide’s longing— "Underneath the twinkling comments of the North, the future is a whisper beneath the dunes."
Travelers from the 18th century stopped here, precisely where the map washed up. "Time is a mere cartwheel," they said, grinding grains in the palm of fate.
A bicycle bell tinkles across the sand, a herald of epochs colliding, turning the loop and linking tales unwritten and unread in the caverns of possibility.
As the moons rotated moth-eyed behind this quartered time, children of future’s future built castles of dusk, guarded by seaweed magicians and phantoms of the unspoken horizon.
A moon-bearer in a star-woven cloak gains approach. She carries ancient mirth and riddles like persistent salt fragments upon the breeze.