Tempest's Crazy Relics

The umbrella compass spins futilely, searching for a direction that doesn’t exist.

Muffled echoes trapped in a glass jar. What do they whisper?

A clock with no numbers, only the tick of endless patience.

Rain-drenched letters from a lighthouse no longer stands.

A shoelace tangled in eternity; the keeper of unwritten fables.

Sand from a desert storm formed into a single, solitary grain.