who stitched those salt-drenched tales upon the inner ear of the deep, as endless echoes swirl around the forgotten message in the bottle, unsent yet tethered to the currents — a spine of waves that knows no sleep, no address, neither signature nor origin. The whispers remain... unwavering.
fragmented calls from forgotten atlases find their way in the dark shroud of milky horizon mists: trails left unexplored, decoded by rhythmic swells shoving through echoes of forgotten luminaries washed astray. Seek not the source, but listen and feel the breaking pulse.
an octopus' laughter hid behind the shadow of a shipwreck; a morning star heralds dissonant steam whistles and hobo train percussion, lost to time-travelling periscopes. Reconnaissance of the deep, a vast yearning caged within desolate porcelain shells.