Static whispers, like shadows upon the skin, ripple beneath the skin of night.
Listening to the river's edge, one becomes the whisper... and yet remains unheard.
The river, an unfathomable path of time and echo, captures moments, transient and eternal. Light dances upon its surface, a fleeting caress that thoughts mirror, where our wandering minds become reflections, indistinguishable from the stream.
Translate the static.
Understand the silent cries echoing through twisted reeds.
In every swirl, a story; in every void, a sigh.
Pick a number, find the truth:
Have you wandered enough? Perhaps there is another path calling. Or listen deeper to echoes lost in time.