The waves whispered my name again, I think, weaving through the cracks— shadows of loyal echoes, they skimmed the edge of thought like scavenger birds picking at the stitched seams of consciousness. Do you hear them too? Sometimes, at dusk, the room breathes, and all feels, well... like a forgotten lullaby clings to the horizon’s line.
Origins linger just beyond reach, like the ghostly treads pacing the corridors of memory, following the rhythm of a far-off tide. Once, long ago, perhaps a story, or maybe a dream, spilled into the night, spilling murmurs that beckon like phantom lights beneath the waves.
There’s a chair that rocks, slow, in the corner—a witness, it seems, to the unspooling of threads woven by time’s hands. And I wonder where it goes when the moon draws the tide and the world hovers, suspended between what is real and what is imagined.
Here, the mind drifts like foam on the surface, connecting dots where none exist, a dance of light and shadow. They say dreams are journeys, so the sea sings and we listen, tracing paths known only to the silent stars.