The Unvoiced Song

The song without lyrics drifts silently within the corridors of synchronised irony. It sits at the edge of forgotten melodies, an echo heard by no one, sung by no throat. Yet, somewhere it resides.

Misplaced memory exhibit:

• Fifth Avenue steam curled around September's reluctant walk.
• The sound of paper crinkling like autumn leaves beneath a shipwright's hands.
• A clock's shadow on the walls, whispering secrets in Morse code.
• The scent of orange blossoms in a forgotten library of dust and solace.
• A child's laugh unnoticed by a mother's untrained ear, framed in oil.

Like the soft sigh of a breeze brushing through dusty vinyl records, the unvoiced song holds a mirror to the past's half-remembered hum. It is in the silence between moments, where every heartbeat is a note left unsaid.

Reflecting on these echoes, one wonders about the paths not taken, or those veiled under the listlessness of routine:

• Corridors of the Whispering Prints
• Fading Lights, Echoes of Tomorrow
• Melody of the Void