So, perhaps it wasn't quite the tale, but a sequence of murmurs in the attic past midnight. Echoes. You remember echoes, right?
I once stumbled across a day like that—like tripping over whispers below streetlamps. And you were there or maybe just a face sketched from scattered anecdotes.
A pause… I'll get back to where I came from later. A rough path, though a certain path nonetheless.
There were so many languages there—that cadence. It felt stitched together from the shadows we keep out of sight.
Ideas you left behind serenade the curious night. And did I mention secrets? Secrets are cryptic after all, until illuminated by curious disaster.
Let's dig deeper. That's just how it's written; isn't it?
You wonder, are these traces fighting or forming lines? Who in the wild harmonics of dawn understands?