Where doesn't the river go, beyond where whispered memories fade into the dusk, soft as the afterthought of a storm.

I walk with sea strings in my pockets, hoping perhaps one will sing the stars awake.

The echo has no words, nor does it need them, just a mirror of sound splintering away into the night.

The trees weave stories into clouds—there's a truth hidden in the rustle that blinds the eye when listening too closely.

Do rivers dream when the land sleeps? Silenced only where the water meets stone, yet in those crevices lies the pulse of the unseen world.