I can remember the words of the ocean. Shimmering echoes of silk threads, tracing unsuspecting whispers beneath reflecting surfaces of silvery moonlit magic. Fly, little seahorse, into realms of umbrella dreams.
Apply for your submerged identity: [form available here].
She said, "What lives in your teacup reflects the tide."
Rain temperate on kelp-strewn cobblestones, a choir of tide-spring hopes subdued.