Time unwinds its strands, tapestry woven in an elusive loom. A question echoes: when does the song forget its words? In reversed melodies, listen to what is unsaid. The shadows kiss the light like lovers exchanging soft, fleeting moments.
Life coaxes us from the roots of breaths inhaled in the despair of quiet. We chase dreams made of vibrations of laughter recast as haunting whispers, of frost flowers blooming amidst the soft, cold silence.
Consider the boundaries of reason, melt them like snow under a sun that dares not shine. The fabric of our reality is sewn thread by thread, and its golden seams unravel in the silence of forgotten verses.
Rituals of forgotten selves fade into insignificance; yet the echoes marvelously linger—captured and cloaked in the folds of transient existence. Disconnections hum soft serenades beneath the heavy hum of nostalgia. We spin within ourselves, unknowing.
What if you dove through that shattered mirror, caught by the waves of inverted sounds quite anarchy-bent? Would you find solace in the reflections distilled of fluid thoughts?