The tides recede, revealing buried remnants of broken words. They whisper tales corroded by saltwater, syllables yearning for breath beneath the seafoam's gentle caress. Each granule, a forgotten story. Each shell, a fragment of a life lived under the ever-changing moon.
Here, on the cusp of the sea, language evolves slower than the rise and fall of the sun. Real footprints disappear beneath the sand, while impressions of meaning sink deeper, hidden in the liquid dark of the ocean's churn. It's a conversation only the waves fully comprehend.
Consider a fisherman, lines cast into currents he believes to be empty, only to reel in histories, like tangled nets bringing up flotsam and jetsam of the mind. What do these drowned narratives make of their new air? How do they tread time, pressed between the membrane of water and reality?
We speak, not knowing we're caught in a net woven by other hands, voices drifting into the tide, forgotten like syllables submerged in melody. Remember to wander these shores, where language is possible only through the myriad echoing refrains of night’s deep.
Listen to the wind's song Remember the breeze