Between the vibrations of the fingertips and the forgotten chasm, lies an archive. It thrives in the folds of unspoken words, the thick fabric of memories unwoven yet tangible. A whisper clings to the air, embedded like a seed in the unwatered soil of consciousness.
The phantom speaks through the quiet corridors of the mind, where each hallway is paved with the mixed sensations of touch and the void. A voice, neither heard nor seen, murmurs gently, a cascade of syllables like rain against a window. The echoes are familiar yet strange, as if reaching back across a bridge that no longer stands in its place.
In the shifting shadows of a sleepless night, you seek words uttered by tongues that have long since departed. These words, barely instruments of time, flicker like candle flames in a room untouched by breath, imbuing the surrounding darkness with their fragile glow.
Somewhere, the phantom waits to be acknowledged. Their existence, woven in the tendrils of thought, begs understanding. It asks us to feel with eyes closed, to let the apprehension of presence suffice for the absence of forms.