Somewhere in the fog of yesterday's echoes, the lighthouses flicker—soft glows of memory lost to the swirling seas of time. Was it the light, or was it us, breaking upon the shore with every dawn, searching for meaning in the gull's cry?
Beneath the surface of the mundane, the absurd dances a delicate waltz, a reminder that in every sinking ship, there is a story untold, a cargo of dreams, perhaps, or a manifesto written in invisible ink. The lophts have stories, too—etched in the sand, washed away by the tide, only to return anew with rain and whispers of old mariners.
Beyond the horizon, where sky kisses sea, lies the truth of our solitude; a reflection in a shattered mirror, that catches the glint of something—hope, despair, or simply the passage of time wrapped in a sleepy fog.