The moon whispers tales of yonder currents, invisible and vast beneath the sea-surface of thought. Waves lap gently at kelp-forests of memories, whilst a lighthouse flickers meanings into shadowed horizons. What sails dictate our dreams to run aground or take flight?
In poolside reveries, we glean. The tides here are not the rhythm of ocean's depth but the multitude in a heartbeat's echo, succeding through storm currents unseen – ephemeral, merely brushed by a speaking tide.
Journey to the Harbor Enter the Interstellar VoidGabriel saw the waves change hue at dawn. "It speaks," he murmured, each word caught buoyantly adrift. And how words float like messages in glass bottles, absolving one moment, committing anew the next.
Perhaps the moon is merely a scribe to these nocturnal rhythms; its tyranny emboldens a tidal leap, attracting distant shores inward. Yet we stand at the cusp of sandbars—the whirl of lucid moments constituting our veneer until reckoning is whispered by morning haze.