Last night, an echo resonated through the quiet corridors of my thoughts, swirling with ruminations of the lost. Could it be? A feeling of twilight casting long shadows, whispering tales untold.
I walked amidst phantoms, curious to unravel their secrets. Whispers of dawn beckoned like moths to the flame, yet clothed in silence.
But here I stand, tracing silent pathways where shadows play. Imagine, each step mirrors memories—wanting release, yet clutching tightly to fragments that dissolve with precision before the wane of day.
Subtle nuances abuzz; a mosaic as rhythmic as a heartbeat throbbing under still skin. Here, every omission echoes. Echoes of solitude dance through the pages of unfinished poems, awaiting discovery.
I pondered the unfurling of laughter confined within glass bells, captured light moments—shapeshifting with the winds of existence only to retreat before recognition. Was it always moving?