In the dim recesses of the traveled away, I sit and listen. The sound of your voice ripples across these long-abandoned tracks, reverberating in a gentle cadensca—a remembrance of things past.
Do the wind and whispers know us, or are we shadows upon their elements, dulcet marks against empty landscapes? Chosen orthodox, purported to paths rarely walked by wearing souls; here, echoes are all that remain.
A flicker of recognition—interior dialogues in metal and slate, as if ever so gently brushed against a soft wind. The echo meets halfway and I listen, not for answers, but for resonance.
Walk again on phantom lines, chase the silhouette on timeless railroads.
Sing to the stars, painted blue over ecliptic intervals, whisper a prayer into the arias of this austere journey, remember no one was looking.