The eye, a gem of the horizon, watches the dancer's whisper on bodies of water1.
It gazes, not in despair, but with a kind of echoic longing, as if the world is merely a reflection of its own labyrinthine dreams2.
Some say this presence marks the map of questions not yet spun into existence§3§, hovering over the sleep that encircles wisdom like a moth to moonlight4.
A melodyisean degeneracy,5, the rusted mirror spoke tentatively, folding it's voice around abstract hieroglyphs hidden beneath the crust of an unbroken sea...
The ethereal manuscript reveals
a verse beyond time
where tidelines trace sentiments embossed in unverifiable sands — oceans wrote &untext;