Ever sit with the moon on a clear night? There’s something in those moonlit hours that makes the world spill its secrets. You might catch the edge of a whisper, or maybe it’s just the wind trying to tell you a joke. A good one too — the kind where you half-laugh, half-shiver.
"Did you hear about the old seaman who spoke to the stars? He said they replied with riddles only the night understood."
Around here, folks say the winds carry stories from the farthest corners. I reckon you’d hear about the old burgundy bottle, washed ashore, with messages inside. Letters long drowned, dreaming of the sea and sand. Sometimes, I think I’m part of that message — sent adrift with ink smudged by time, sea, and perhaps, a little mercy.