The murmurs of ancient grey giants, muted whispers in forgotten tongues, scatter like whispers amongst the tree trunks. Do you remember the sky, stretched thin over infinite plains? You speak as if your voice curves along those remembered horizons. Lost, the essence of paths never walked but known in dreams, an imprint as old as time itself.

Tusk and treasure, fauna forgotten in the hollows of our minds, an echo of primordial hearts. They call out, from ivory towers within consciousness, tracing the outline of memories. Absurd mornings rise unbidden in spectral arcs against the tapestry of now. Beneath, the surface trembles, a prelude to unseen tides.

Like a drum echoing into the void, the pounding persists. Journeys without beginnings or endings, they spiral through the cosmos, contracting, expanding, pulsing. Listen to the music of their step, the orchestra of celestial dust. Beneath the silence, a profound sigh.