Ah, the echoes of the tides, they sing songs of forgotten ardor. Waves carry whispers of a sun that never sets, of a moon that dances in the alignments of stars beyond worlds we know. Are they messages woven into the strands of the sea, left to drift until they find the warm embrace of shore?

Listen closely, catch the longing in each crash of surf, the kisses exchanged between brine and soil. Here lies a heart, adrift, anchored to none, yet tethered to all. Even the gulls, wild and flighty, have taken to heart the serenade of the ocean's shadowy depths. They weave through the skylight, tracing lines of lost dreams onto ether.

Perchance these whispers are relics of another language, a lost dialogue with the deep. Faint transmissions from a lover wrapped in mist, in sea foam, in secrets untold. The soft resin of time drips languidly, beguiling us into reverie. Could we reconstruct their symphony, note by shimmering note?

- Anon, the Shore Keeper