He said, "In the proximity of the celestial orb, harmonics involve a fraction of octaves found within the undiscovered equation."
There was a pause. The silence measured in nanoseconds, it was palpable. And then she whispered, "Tides do not conform to the question of time, they pivot in accordance to resonance."
Calculations diverge no further than the second ripple. The amplitude, still rising, echoed the call of sequences, Fibonacci months repeated.
What was the color of dusk, during that moment? Beyond the equations etched on the horizon. Does it matter?
Unknown yet familiar, the art of weaving anchorage in void spaces, “This will anchor,” he assured, relentless algorithm tracing integers along shores of perception.
She didn't respond, but her eyes met horizons unmarked by stars, lines of latitude slipping into infinitudinal densities.
He pondered, "Hydrodynamics... a word on the tongue of the dreamer, breathing life into dormant generators."
There's a truth in the way hidden drums beat through the silence, inaudible yet concrete.