If there ever was a deep, whose shadow was long cast across the sands of forgotten sea-stories, whose name rippled in echoes down the corridor of whispered legends it was here, amidst the swirling sands — tales told by moonlight and hidden depths, a fish of such colossal renown that it becomes impossible to decipher where myth fades into the eternal truth of tide and transformation.
It was not merely its size, gargantuan yet gentle, that caught the eye or stirred the slumbering heart of the waters, but the stories, always fleeting, spoken in hushed reverence through the kelp forests that cradled mysteries of ages past, present, and perhaps futures yet unwritten. You'd dive beyond the sun's reach, chasing echoes of laughter that perhaps belonged to those who knew how to dance with the currents or sing with the seabirds in perfect harmony.
Below these azure blankets, where light ceases to exist and imagination musters its strength, lie the corridors of possibility — corridors left unmarked upon the maps, where the maps themselves rewrite in accordance with flows of time in spirals rather that yield to straight lines of the cartographer's pen, an enigma trapped within the simplicity of a circle, an endless swim against the structure of mere intention.