Sinking into the depths of something as fluid as thought, endless in its quiet depths and spectacular in its silent expanse. The water, although not tangible, surrounds. It thrills and chills, stirs.
In the azure gloom, where photons falter and fade, whispers swim like silken strands. They dance in chandeliers of reflective solitude, light itself captured, suspended in luminescent amber. Here, time is a trickle of forgotten droplets, each drop a fragment of an unfinished thought.
Far below, the universe sleeps in a cozy creep, its dreams washed upon an invisible shore. Life—an eternal driftwood collection—gathers upon the knee of existence, resting, resting, perched precariously at the edge of the possible.