The horizon bleeds into the ether, murmuring tales of cosmically displaced shores. Here, silence is a companion, and the stars query one another in wary whispers.
An echo shimmers, a footprint stares into an abyss of vacuity. What tales it would trot had it voice, lament had it breath. Alien sands embrace alien shadows under the cobalt skies of memories yet unformed.
The ponderous walk involves more than steps; it involves pauses, contemplations spun like gossamer in the stale air of unspoken dominions. The essence of presence, the weight of absence—each imprint encodes the unsaid.
Like ancient oracles, they peer outwards with prophetic neutrality, waiting, hoping for resurrection in a clime untouched by mortal reasoning. Do the echoes wish to touch the cosmos, or do they too tremble in remoteness?
Existence, therefore, becomes an existential dance across a barren vista, each footfall a sonnet left half-formed amidst the quietude. Our footprints converse; we listen, we dream, we remain.