"I remember the small garden, sun-drenched and infinitesimal. The scent of earth after rain clung to my shell like a forgotten promise. In 1965, I saw my first clock tower reverberate through the fog of early morning dew. Did I linger there for hours, or was it merely a momentary pause in a long journey back to my pond?
Time slips like water through claws—an endless squabble between now and then. Today, I return to the same garden, now transformed into a brimming metropolis. But in my heart, the memories remain unchanged: a single daisy swaying gently, a butterfly rests, and I, ever so slowly, cross the path.
"Under the incandescent ebb and flow of the city, I often reminisce about the vast, dark expanse of 1745, when the oceans were uncharted territories for the brave-hearted. I was called a 'squabble' in those ancient poems—an adversary to be reckoned with when one dared to traverse the waterways.
The salt of time has crusted upon my memories, yet the rhythm of the tides remains a familiar comfort. Today, in the labyrinth of concrete and lights, I trace the outline of familiar currents. The streets pulse like the sea, charting their own course through the living city.