In the corners where lights flicker off, shadows speak in murmurs, tales unsaid confined by sound's ephemeral thread. Beyond doors that creak, the fabric of silence weaves lullabies static yet vibrant, a tapestry unseen, unheard yet felt.
A voice like the wind shelters secrets...
And in this warped reverie, memories tarnished, voices chant from the ceiling, songs of yesterday with words like raindrops lingering after a forgotten storm. Skies of people unspoken, hours passing through mirrors not reflecting truth but the hush of static lullabies.
Do you remember? The faces half visible in twilight's embrace, eyes glimmering like distant shores, echoing the whispers cast adrift upon wandering currents. Dreams build on the stones of quiet, with shadows as architects, framing this other place.
Touched by the spectral hands...
The glazed serenade continues its course, winds that sing through lettered antiquities long dismissed. Every note an echo behind whispers, behind the veil of known and the yet-to-be, familiarity wrapped in the shroud of night's unending dialogue.
In the raven's call, a harking toward something more, something orbiting in the umbra of consciousness, lingering… drifting… demissioned into a world where static lullabies are the echoes and whispers belong beneath forgotten tides.