In the twilight of the ocean's embrace, where light dares to tread lightly, a merman muses.
The sea is but a stage, and the stage is but a facade, peeling in layers.
"Enter the coordinates and relinquish control," whispered the dolphin lair of the secretive Dolphin Knights.
This was not a tale, but a manual, cryptic and entangled. The tides do not obey, they conspire.
Coordinates: 47.3° N, 122.5° W
Among kelp forests and coral labyrinths, irony is the key to subaqueous survival. "Survive and thrive," said the existential sea cucumber. "Or just survive."
Herbal tea brewed from seagrass does not brew well; it refrains. A riddle retranslated from the Porpoise tongue.
The octopus foretold nothing, its silence echoing louder than a siren’s song. "Embrace the confusion," it implied, without a single word uttered, "but avoid the surface, it's suspiciously critical."
Octopus Wisdom: Stay Diverged