In the whispered bass of echoes, lies the revolution of erased chronicles. Layers upon layers, like sediment in still waters, each with its own timbre, its distinct resonance.

The city sleeps, dreaming of fervor and feedback loops, where marching footfalls resonate with epochs past—an undulating bass line of forgotten pleas.

Once vibrant, the chronicles now whisper from underneath the surfaces we touched while half-asleep under incandescent stars. No one asks softly enough—or aloud for that matter—about the words obscured by histories extant.

To read them is to tread lightly over the surface, to feel beneath crisp echoes the pulse of realities chalked over, only glimpsed as shadows flickering on the edge of vision.

The water above is still, undisturbed. The bass remains, unwavering. All revolutions have a tempo, invisible to all but those who choose to hear.

Whose future do your footsteps nourish in selfless, burgeoning echoes?