As the tides recede, so too do our aspirations for profundity. But fear not, for the ocean's belly knows no secrets, only the folly of stranded ambitions.
Waves whisper in an obscure tongue, script by script, word by word. The manuscript of the sea churns its ink. Murmurings of the forgotten.
Beneath the moonlit governance, where irony wields its trident, the scripted tides reveal what was never concealed; a mirage of sincerity.
Here lies the eulogy of expectations, buried deep in the sand, only to be rebirthed as shells of their former selves. Echoes of vitality.
In the grand theatre of foam and brine, we play our roles with masks of kelp, navigating currents with the wisdom of fools.
The net of truth tangles its catch, a harvest of hollow truths ripe for the picking. Illusions of grandeur.
Thus, the sea scripts its saga, an ironic ode to the relentless rhythm of revelation and concealment.