In the crests of forgotten tides lie the sands of time—each grain a memory, an echo of the narratives once vibrant in their submission to the elements. What remains when the past is submerged beneath waves that both preserve and decay, whispering secrets to those who tread upon the shallows?
Consider the palimpsest—an artifact of erasure, a testament to bygone inscriptions. What histories clamor beneath the ink of now, stories half-remembered, half-forgotten, yearning for air beneath layers of oblivion? Are we not like those ancient manuscripts, our lives written with the ink of experience atop a substrate of erased truths?
As the waves lap against the ever-changing shore, they rewrite the landscape in rhythmic certitude. Our own shores, shaped by the slow artistry of time, echo this promise of renewal, of cyclical beginnings and endings that dwell in the ambrosial weave of existence.