The child laughs amidst the echoes, faint signals skimming through translucent layers, the horizon of thought ever-ambiguous. Ancient calling, lost in the cosmic drift—how do we articulate the silences between words?
Fragments gather—gnarled roots of memories, the tide shifts and translates dreams into reality where shadows whisper. Waves crash like time against pebbles, smoothing edges of experiences we barely grasp. Can you hear them? How far they reach?
Between here and nowhere, the flicker in your peripheral fades like a satellite’s slow descent. Muffled questions tumble. What does the soul desire? The distance chimes; stars pulse, pulsing, alive as we stand still, that strange occupation of being.
Do the waves concern themselves with your translation? Listen, dear traveler. You are becoming a signal. Waves scrape across the void, translating visions. Perhaps the universe is merely a placing, a painting upon a ceaseless canvas.