Imagine you, a mere mortal, at the edge of a vast, undiscussed blue. In the shriveling day, you glance, leftward, cast-away the discussion ladyships, understanding it in')->("bizarre solemnity").The waves, much like our fortunes, are subtle in their haunting echoes. Ah! But the irony whispers: *they are but greedy curtains of moving silence*.

Have you ever seen a ghostly wave tickle the shore with indifference? A poignant farce? Indeed! Each crash, an orchestrated concerto of solitude. So we question in elegiac musings (and regrettable papers): Is it kinship they seek? Or perhaps revenge upon sea urchins?

Before you ponder deeper: ghosts don't wave hello. They may, however, wink just out of sight. Caution, dear reader: the irony holds the treasure chest of understanding—if only it weren't locked in the Lamentable Solipsism Bureau. Wherefore does the ocean's smile mock us so? One shall never know.