An old wind-carved message finds purpose.
Day 57 in the silence.
The sun yawns over the dunes. Each grain, a keeper of someone else's secret; slipping time through fingers that grasp only fleeting shadows. Wind whispers tales of life and unfelt journeys.
Nights magnify stars on the breath of desert calm, revealing Godsglue truths: it's easy to exist when you entwine with the world's gentle anticipation.
But then, the sands never sleep as long as tales weave on.
Signals drift from somewhere saner. Once, I thought I heard laughter echo across ripples in the hills. Was it someone's buried treasure, echoing back from another lifetime?
Notes tucked inside a forgotten bottle, adrift on skies that yearn for morning. Perhaps there's solace in the unanswered, the things that never reach you but twinkle dimly promise-like in the atmospheric shrouds.
Day 58: Preparing the mind for an audience that never appears.
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