Drifting, bodies intertwine with currents unseen, unheard, the salty breeze invoking memories of places lost—shores unvisited, stories unsaid. At sea, the horizon stretches eternity; soft, a promise itself whispered by the winds.
Deep cobalt canvases unfurl, where light dares to skim the surface momentarily before retreating, as if shy of its full embrace. Voices of the ocean weave through the restless tide, a comforting monotone hum cradling the soul adrift.
Shrouded in mist, I listen closely, drawing the past as one does from old seams unraveling. Every echo is a promise renewed, every whisper—an incomplete thought, half-formed. Perhaps I am made of whispers; perhaps I am merely the echo of an echo.