With wings that outstretch the horizon and beaks that etch dreams onto the wind, the sea birds dance through the energy of life, weaving stories from frothy waves. Imagine a world where their calls are histograms of myth, arcs of legend in the sky's canvas.
An aging sailor once whispered of a bird, the Etingrahe Lok'ta, whose song carved paths in the stars. Every night, while the ships rocked with age and the horizon blinked with distant fires, the voice of Lok'ta would echo, vibrating through the decks and straightening time itself into curlicues of history. What became of Lok'ta? Some say it's teaching the albatross how to navigate dreams.
Resurfacing beneath our conscious waves, we find sea birds are not mere travelers; they are celestial timekeepers, custodians of aeons untold. Fossils of thought buried in shifting dunes of the subconscious, waiting for a zephyr to unearth them. Shall we follow their shadows?
In the caverns of old, beyond where light dares to peek, we've found echoes — fragments of stories told by light-licked stones. The message of these fossils? A map, perhaps, drawn by the sea's ink, leading to realms woven with dreams yet lived, tied to the fluttering hearts of seabirds perched on the fringes of reality.