Cacophonous echoes, a whirl of lost tempos. Shift your head, and the waves bend, curl like a cat seeking warmth. Perception play! Fingers dance, clutching at phantom chords seeping through reality's closed doors.
What man deciphers or deceives in these curtain folds of sound? Was there a prism rested on the stone table adjacent to the last echo? Or was the wine merely spiced with temporal leaps asked by a curious mind?
Frantic scribbles pooled along endless rows of acoustic indifference, shaper of dimensionless prisons. Bound by that which they cannot be without, yet never understand wholly. Listen—there's a song once sung long ago, twisted, taut on the edge of meaning.
Questions spawn spontaneously like rabbits at dusk—where do echoes go when unheard? Touch sound, break illusions, let truth overflow along petrichor skies. Agitation, resolve.