The whispers hid inside, beneath layers of softer thinking. Within the mirroring realms of introspection, the soundwaves traveled insidiously.
The seashell hears it all. The rolling of tides, the silent beckoning of unnamed waters, embracing loneliness with affection. Do echoes truly fade, or do they rest in quiet chambers, cocooned and waiting to resound in spaces untouched?
Honorary dreams drift nocturnal... stand still in undercurrents.
This hidden place, this private grove, nestled in mythical sands, remembers what the eyes forgot stuffed in yesterday’s suitcase. There's an age-weary feeling meats to wood by twilight.
Much is veiled beneath a gentle push of soil. Feel the whispers kiss your bare feet—listen as they carve stories upon your soles.