In the cold embrace where time flows like tendrils of undiscovered fish, I write not with hands but with the pulse of forgotten sirens. Here, knowledge is whispers lodged in barnacles, slightly swallowed by ink so deep it echoes.
The pressure builds stories from shrapnel memories, each wave crashing like a broken clock screaming the return of starry squid. Who are we underwater, if not remnants of sound lost beneath the skull of Poseidon?
Choruses chant the depth of our desire, the coral already nursing the words bleeding through boundless solitude. Strange vessels pass dreaming tides, spinning dreams of breaths unheard, inhaled only by the metallic ghost of empathy.
The heart reads more than it beats, translating flutters of dream-currents blindly embraced by leeching wrasse. Speak silently, hollow sink and listen to the eerie ring of future's forgotten past.