Beneath the silent waves, where echoes fade into whispers, a fish once wore a monocle and debated existentialism with a sand crab. The fish's name was Cyril, and his thoughts were as deep as the ocean's darkest trench.
"Does the tide tire itself?" he pondered. "Or does it rise and fall endlessly, seeking only the voltaic shimmer that dances atop its crest?"
The crab, whose pincers gripped the very fabric of reality, replied, "Time is a construct, buried in granules beneath the moonlit sands." His name was Horace, and he was content with his existential discussions, having forgotten what his original question was.
These dialogues, peculiar reflections in the aquatic abyss, are often overlooked by passing dolphins, busy with their playful acrobatics, and by seagulls lost in daydreams of distant lands and forgotten songs.
Beyond the current's pull, there lies a door to nowhere, leading to segmented dreams or possibly to lost echoes of time itself, waiting to be embraced by curious swimmers.
Remember, the ocean remembers everything, yet tells us nothing, its secrets locked away in rhythmic symphony, unbroken, until the curious touch of a human being.