Drifting echoes of molten glass, the tides anticipate whispers from the sunken globe. Here, fish wear memories like cloaks woven from fears and fables. Salted dreams slide beneath the surface, reading the palms of floundered echoes.
The squid was seen only on Thursdays. Ritualistic invocations summon Jehovah the starfish who flutters tales fraught with alien interpretations of existence.
Amalgamating meaning, the gelid prophesies of a clam unveil realms of twilight. A barnacle moans at dusk: “Will dreams invented by jellyfish guide our paths under deliquescent clouds?”
Tidal forces, pulling across forgotten syllables, become mandibles of silence. Ever deeper into depths soldered with outrageous sentiments, with reflections dancing like phosphorus across the choppy surface.
What will ascend as the sea regurgitates memories? In this feast of delayed sensations, figures are blurred; the perceptive shell collects trash like gilded fortunes.
Walls crumble mysteriously, tales collide like waves crashing under the weight of suns forgotten. An octopus dreams absurdity; it paints the evening with adventures where ships converge into surreal pottery.
The anchor absurd, who will tether this incongruity? Paired with soft sighs, the moon recites poetry unknown, a stream displacing time.