In the sepulcher of silence, a whisper lingers. It is the fossilized thought that breaths beneath the pressed sands of time. Sound, once a ripple, now an echo entombed in the labyrinth of perception.
When the rain falls sideways, it is said to sing. This song is remembered by the roots that drink its memories. Thus beneath the canopy, the song collects, drops, and signals the forgotten pathways of currents unseen.
A clock ticks somewhere, but its hands do not turn. Until the frequency harmonizes with your pulse, ticking becomes the unturned pages of volumes you never knew you wrote.
Amongst the unseen scribes are paths to nowhere, where a figure listens with bated breath, awaiting the crescendo of the unsaid. Time fractures, sound escapes...
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