Upon the desolate shores where waves whisper legends untold, the grains of time conceal symphonies composed by souls no longer wandering. Each sound petrified, fossilized, awaits the unwary traveler to sift through the echoes of eternity.
"Were we not the architects of our own abysses?" mused the remnants of a thinker whose bones sang under the moonlight's gaze. Their questions linger in the salty breeze, timeless and untouched.
In the depths of solitude, an island breathes, holding in its chest the symphonies of forgotten dreams. The stars, indifferent spectators, twinkle to their own silent rhythm—a reminder of the vastness of the unexplored.
"What is the worth of a thought, should it not fly?" chirps the skeletal melody of the seagull, its wings grasping the wind's fabric, tearing at truths woven in shadows and light.