Have we become turtlebacks, lone oracles of the saline fringes, whispering questions to void-speakers mere inches from our lips? Ah, in the winding passages of luminescent thought... What is the ocean, I ask my infinitesimal ear-horn? It replies in concerto—water, whisper, misconstrued grandeur.
The shell listens, mourns, bears witness to coastal rants. You too, dear hermit, indulge in auditory cloches. What irony: the wielder of a whisper whom decibels flee.
Serenade of Echoes | Unsung Volumes