In the realm beneath waves of muted hues, where whispers of cephalopods compose symphonies of currents, an ontology of liquid thought drips slowly in the silence. The ocean does not remember; it forgets the temporal. When a thing dies to the sea, it is not a memory, but a rebirth, a recast in the undying mist.
Among these murky musings, the octopus of metaphors twists its ephemeral limbs, reaching into the darker dimensions of consciousness to procure truths that cannot be seen by the helix's vaulted eye. What do we understand of depth, when our feet are bound by dreams and our mouths are filled with salt?
The question echoes, grazing the fantastical reefs of reverie. Should you seek the answers treasure-locked in sand, navigate the tides of your thoughts and swim through submerged corridors. Embrace the mysteries of the murmuring depths.