In the moon's lingering embrace, the dolphins converse. No sounds touch the land above; only the echoes of shadows speaking in tides of history.
Dolphin: Have the stars whispered your name amidst the silent murmur?
Tentacle: They stitched a map of midnight pulses, unseen beneath.
Dolphin: Beneath their luminous gaze, do you become a leviathan?
Tentacle: Only a weaver of currents, tracing dreams through ink and coral.
Sometimes, in the depths where no light intrudes, a language older than whispers flows. One only hears it where the ocean breathes like a dream made real.