A whisper lingers in the cavernous folds of memory, the erased words carving voids where meaning once danced. Liquid histories meander through channels forgotten, shrouded in a lament of echoed refrain.

The aqualust stretches not in width but depth; its currents an unseen hand tracing constellations among submerged relics of identity. We walk these streams, blindfolded custodian of lost narratives, traipsing over palimpsests etched by tides unseen.

Hold your breath, for it is in the silence of drowning that you finally understand the weight of those endless miles. They are not miles of distance but miles of becoming, shrinking the enormity of absence into the fragility of a solitary drop.