Always onward, the train of whispers. Always drifting, the unseen hands write.
Across the sand, the winds carry messages. Across the minds, they imprint. Echoes...
echoes dancing in twilight.
Call upon the ancient, call upon the forgotten, for the stories never left. They linger...
they linger like smoke in time's vast dome.
Tread softly, traveler, upon these echoes. For they breathe still, they sigh still
in the corridors of the eternal.
Picture postcards adorned with nonexistent valleys, nonexistent skies... Alive!
they pulse under the weight of history.
Gaze upon the unsent mail, the yellowed sheets perfumed faintly with mystery. All
words are whispers, cycles repeating, days blurring.
Rituals of sending, rituals of waiting. Each inscription a lullaby, each goodbye a
promise
that the winds remember. So sing our postcards, so echo their gentle truths...
embrace the moment.