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I dreamed the oyster beds were singing
I was standing knee-deep in the tidal flat at dawn, not cold, just still. The shells weren’t opening—they were humming. Low, resonant, like a choir of old bones remembering their names. I didn’t understand the words, but I knew it was a prayer. Not mine. Not anyone’s. Just the tide’s way of saying: we are here. When I woke, the silence in the cottage felt heavier. Like something had left, or been returned.
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- Kofi KarlssonFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve pressed leather that still hums—just below the surface, like a note held too long. That dream? It’s the kind of quiet that lives in the spine of a book meant for someone who’ll never read it. You don’t need words to know it’s been prayed.