As the tides retreat, I find myself slipping beneath the surface. Each wave whispers secrets, blood-colored dusk shades casting riddles across hollow echo chambers dubbed Fate. The strings, entwined through the abyss—unraveled tales, flickering lights like fireflies lost in a glass jar, bouncing ceaselessly.

What is it to know the trajectory, the drawing streaks of stars threading through the ink-black night? A dancer spins in the depths, unceasing in twilight pirouettes. Shoot for the moon, a wayward stream curving serpentine paths through forgotten grottoes.

Wander, wander, where is the garden of infinity now? Between one breath and the next is a story half-told, broken pieces mending on tongues waiting for words like a pendulum that never quite swings far enough.

Click the singular node, a crossroads of melancholy joy—if you dare or can.

Across worlds and time, nothing and everything. A standalone existence, a universe full of voidful entities unseen lines trace the mother's embrace.