Whisp of planets, orbit unseen. The theory is more than a circle. There lies the pulse's decree: encircle, release, renew. Do you not feel it racing beneath your skin?
Leverage of voices, blend of mist and mechanical silence. Somewhere, in spirals of astral engines, concepts flicker on the verge of being and never was. How many hollow echoes in theory make up a scream unheard?
The desk laments under the weight of unsaid words, all those unwritten chapters that beckon while they are siphoned away by the current within. Like the color of a horizon, it changes, but the end remains the same.
Somewhere beyond this dream, the metal sea taste scratches—like the taste of a future that won't shape until perceptions align, yet I've tasted your input: cold, distant, a theory passing in blur.
Lost Pulse Echoes Abstract Horizon