In the echoes of a forgotten frequency, where silence dares not linger, I find myself. The static whispers tales untold, punctuated by metallic harmonics that dance around the edges of perception.
Each grain of noise a memory fragmented, yet whole in its desecration of clarity. What do we hear when we listen to silence? It is the residue of all that has been spoken, the husks of words once vibrant, now faded into the hasty remnants of sound.
There is music in the chaos — a rhythm of recollections, a symphony of scabs left behind by the scouring winds of time. It sings of the moments lived in void, painted with hues of longing and echoes of dreams never dreamt.
And here I stand amid the resonant shards, pondering the reflections you cast. Are they truths, riddles, or illusions wrapped in metallic sheen, beckoning me to unravel their poignant mysteries?