In the dusk of each morrow, as the azure fades into obsidian whispers, mimic the languid sway of sorrowful kelp in the deep, opalescent depths. If one listens closely, the waves propose an elegy, crisp against the jagged rocks—an unending cycle of beginnings nestled in fleeting breaths of despair.
Upon the desolate shore, where once flocks danced as light glinted upon cerulean crests, we find the ugliest truth: beauty is never innocent; it struggles, it scrapes against the roiling of shifting sands. Each crested wave bears none but secrets of those who are lost to the carnivorous embrace of the ocean's grip.
Can you grasp the peaceful chaos entwined? Internally we echo like shells brushing against dampened earth, fine tremors rippling. Reality flays at the edges—twilight cravings haunt. Insymbols, spirits whirl, the marrow of sunsets stained in blood-orange aspirations.
Yet—like the tide relinquishing its treasures, our hope ebbs under deafened moons, those cooling breaths inspire fragmented reflections wrought from the deepest abyss. We remain formless, forever sculpted by ethereal fingers of the sea, a canvas rich in colors yet bound by the limits of melancholy.