There lies another kind of ocean, where the waves do not touch the shore nor carry the salty scent of oblivion. These waves are silent, curling upon themselves in a cosmic ballet. Do they whisper secrets to the stars, or do they keep them hidden in the depths, unseen by mortal eyes?
Listen, if you dare, to the resonance of existence echoing through the void. A question like an indigo tremor across a midnight sea: What is time but a rogue wave breaking upon the shore of consciousness? An abyssal current, pulling thought into its silent depths.
Here lies the Echo of Thought, the reflection of a reflection, a shadow of a whisper. In the hidden waves of silence, truth becomes illusion, and reality bends like light through the prism of otherworldly dreams.
The universe speaks in paradox, a riddle wrapped in the fabric of the unfoldable. Some say the ocean is a dream; others, a memory. Insight reveals that we are but echoes, reverberations of a greater, silent song.