The whispering tides do not ask for permission. They seep beneath doors and solicit entry into sanctuaries of certainty. Yet certainty, like sandcastles, is ephemeral.
In the clear waves of thought, do you see your reflection? The mirror distorts yet amplifies truth, the sea of consciousness both familiar and haunting.
The funhouse mirror embarks on a dialogue with shadow and light. Do whispers have weight in a turbulent sea? Or are they buoyant, drifting lazily against the current?
What whispers at the water's edge? Are they lost desires casting echoing ripples over tranquil minds?
Each tide is a new beginning, an ending masked as dawn. Do we ride the surges, or do we anchor to recognizable shores?
Visit the fractured echoes or ponder silent songs.