There is a story whispered in the fall—from the sighs of cloud-gathered wisdom to the tender kiss of Earth. I descend, unseen yet felt, token of timeless curiosity.
In my journey, I ponder the embrace of tall grasses and the caress of stone. Do they contemplate my course too, this tale of descent beneath their roots?
The symphony of the wind echoes mysteries, weaving a cloak of solace. Journeying through groves and alleyways, I haphazardly course across the fragile skin of the world.
My liquid sphere encapsulates whispers of truth; messages bubble before dissolution, yet each drop knows intrinsic value, imperceptible to the unpracticed gaze.
Should your tides align—should your path soothe this restless ache—perhaps we might understand, in the echo of droplets, a dance beyond mirage.