Upon the horizon where the cerulean kiss meets the amber curve of the horizon's curve meeting the day's end, where time encloses itself in a soft lull, whispers begin a conversation that has neither genesis nor ending and what is said cannot be unspoken yet the meaning is lost amidst the gentle breeze stirring shadows unformed as words swim in the drone-like pilgrimage towards understanding but knowing always remains just short of fingertips reaching grasp onto the solace of clouds riding the wind round and round the story of mankind written in patterns upon patterns, repeating, a floral maze where No Direction stands as both guide and riddle, and then you hear it—the echo of your own thoughts murmuring secrets to the seafoam, suggestions that trail behind like a dog chasing an invisible comet.

Stretch your hand out and you're not sure if you'll catch the wind or if it'll slip through your hands like sand through glass, the grains twinkling in the amber light—a melody, perhaps, of stars drawn into the earth's tapestry with the hands of a clock that knows how to stop time just when you need it the most except it can't tell you how because it's always been a mystery one shared by mariners in the dark but one wonders, oh yes, one always wonders if the stars are weeping or laughing or something in between, something profound, as truth often is and never is as it dances upon the lip of the horizon between what is dreamt and what is merely a shadow in the morning light.