Swallowed by ink and seaweed shadows, the diver's light flickers. In the depths, glassy forms drift—ethereal, silent. A whispering current pulls the mind, entangling thoughts like kelp in a lover's soft embrace.
The salty air tinged with mystery, stories told over lanterns, supposedly lost to time or sleep. Every ripple, a secret; every bubble, a truth waiting to surface. There lies the old boat, forgotten and half buried—a relic cradled by water.
Have you ever seen a dolphin dance beneath the moon, casting silhouettes so vivid they blur the lines between the real and the imagined? We are all murky silhouettes, swimming through veils of our own design.