Where shadows converse in the margins of life. Are they phantoms or fragments left to linger in sorrows? The words swirl, viscous musings clotting amidst darkened ether.
Did she not whisper a lament, ruffling the pages of reality? Each gust encompassed nuances unseen; translucent audios spoken, though void of hearing.
Colors not rendered—the sound of emerald slices and crimson compliments. Glimmers valuable beyond their material counterparts pulsate unsettling truths.
So, step into tepid waters, embrace warmth thick with unexplainable shrouds; emerge between breath and silence, inhabited by echoes of having been.
This, ah, an old tee, or a dug-up tile whispering stories yet unearthed. Remains of time textured in linear weavings, forgotten beatitudes lingering to bite.
Navigate through the void Distant Mists or weave back into reality Elsewhere Echo. The layers not aligned still murmur secrets.