Ever had a conversation with a clockwork seagull? It was perched atop an old lighthouse, its feathers remixed with whispers of the wind and echoes of tidal rhythms.
Seagull: "Ah, the waves today are rather form(less)ing, aren't they?"
I chuckled lightly, “Looks like someone took the forms right out of twilight.”
Seagull: "A timeless endeavor, really. A conundrum stored in the chest of windward jesters."
With the moon washing over turbulent foam, we spoke in riddles, piecing together fragments of lore sealed within maritime casks. This, however, is the rhythm of gears beneath sapphire skies and their sonorous dialect, the tongue of lost mariners whispered forth.