The vestige of sleep pulses, a forgotten symphony echoing between the synapses.
Words collected in the void, fragments of conversations yet spoken.
Can you hear it? The silent orchestration of insomnia.
Dream not of night, but of the harmonic chord that binds time.
The resonance of sleeplessness lingers, as if plucked from the cosmic harp.
Each thought, a musical note, arrhythmic and unbound.
Listen, and you shall hear the murmurs of past lives — the sleeper's reflection.
Your mind, a stage, where abstract flows like water on a forgotten shore.