In the depths of the ocean, where whispers turn into murmurs, a philosopher stood. Not with feet planted firmly on the ground, but rather tiptoeing along the cusp of understanding and absurdity. The waves, ever so fickle, became both his classroom and his confessor.
"Tell me, O great tide, the secret of your rhythmic dance," he queried, voice echoing through the void. "Is it motion for motion's sake, or a deeper yearning for the shore?" The sea, in its enigmatic wisdom, replied with silence, which the philosopher skillfully interpreted as profound indifference.
Irony, it seems, was the only constant in this watery dialogue. Every wave that crashed upon the rocks was but an applause for thoughts unthought, a cycle neither beginning nor end, an infinite ripple in the cosmos' cosmic tea.