In deep recesses, where the mind quiets, a whisper carried by the currents reaches out:

"Horizon of frequencies, cast adrift under the blanket of memory."

It was never meant for ears, only for those searching quiet places along forgotten shores.

Gentle echoes collide with the shards of an unseen past:

"We roam between lines of history, between shadows of screaming tides."

What is heard, reverberates beneath the surface, secrets too heavy for the air.

A grid of silence ensnares errant thoughts:

"They build their cities with glass threads, sing songs to shimmering dust."

And yet, who remains to sit by the embers and listen, when fires no longer serve warmth but memory?