In the flicker of a streetlamp's glow, the whispers, like ancient leaves, cascade through the hollow, forgotten halls of memory, where past lives dream beneath the wallpaper's peeling tales. Do ghosts hum? Do they breathe song into silence? One sits, amidst clocks tickling resistance, amidst their own echoes bending around undecided corners of bygone corridors.
Pause here: listen to the echo of your own shadow. Beneath the faulty bulbs and reflections that never touch the skin, lies a river of unspent minutes—flowing and folding beyond experience, serenading unknowing poets. Now tell—whisper—will the unseen hear back?