The shadow holds its secrets tight, "let them slip, let's see them drip" murmurs the wind against cobwebbed thoughts, tangled tales each breath as an echo. Dreams, unfinished, stain the hollow chambers, "are we not echoing ourselves" a question born from whispers of an ancient brook, rippling.
Midnight's embrace, tender and cold, "pulse of the cosmos, are you listening?" cries the earth beneath your orbit, pattering secrets into the soil of consciousness. In the periphery, laughter of distant stars corrosive to deaf ears, yet here, we listen—the garden of shadows blooms anew.
Fragmented voices linger in every tick of a clock, "once, forevermore, and yet again,” rejoices the silent sanctuary behind a crumbling facade of time. The echoes are tales in disguise, carrying weightless whispers, binding ink droplets into flowing, fantastical threads.