The moon pulls the tides, it pulls, it breathes, it's a family of endless loops, echoing shadows. We dance in rhythm, ocean to lunar call, again and again, tides recede, only to meet the shores, the shore's tired sighs. A mother's touch, a cradle's empty sigh, over and over, it never changes, yet always transforms.

Do you hear the whispers of the waves? They repeat, repeat in the language forgotten by all but the waves, circling, circling, talking of stories washed up on sterile sands. Moonstone families, gatherings of luminous kin lost in night’s embrace.

Families below, above, hidden behind the veil of night’s face. Constant, yet no, always shifting, a loop broken by breath, by sigh, by the longing of stars pulling and letting go, erratic but steady as heartbeat in the void.

They weave patterns, speaking secrets to the tides, telling tales of silent moons that drift like lost wanderers. The floor of lunar kin once mapped in wholesome white now bears shadows uncounted, unknown.