When reflections are but mirages on cracked surfaces, one questions the essence of being.
Do shadows cast by April's twilight know the colors of forgotten symphonies, or merely echo the silence?
Unseen paths lead to choices, yet choices remain echoes of paths unseen. Through windows that blink like dying stars, do we find the light of reality or the void of possibility?
Perhaps it's in the flicker of electric ghosts that we find
solace, a dance of pixels that sings the opera of what was not.