Beneath the cerulean sky, a decaying whim to wander stops only to pause, only to reflect. Your footprints etching stories into grains of silence, whispered legends no more born. Paths calculated, volumes charted in rarefied air, yet never west of the eastward glow.
To the unobserved observer, the sand teaches patience. Follow the golden hour for souls seldom found roaming; recourse only to fluid dreams that stay beneath noon—bake yourself an echo. Did you hear?
Take seven steps diagonally to the left. Breath. Then reverse attendance unto mutual nonsense. It will lead—to precisely nowhere significant—until you realize significance was left unremarked in pathless reverie.