Once, at the plotting edge of sleep, where shadows met silken whispers, a story unfurled in elongated echo. It stretched like a soft dawn reluctant to rise.
A mosaic of silence laid stitched upon the consciousness; it was here the static hummed its ill-fated lullabies. One, two, three; counted pauses, rhythm disordered, yet a comfort was found in its embrace. The room pulsated, ever alive, breathing beneath the veneer of quietude, where tapestries clutched the void and stars whispered through faded curlicues.
The rhythm of sandbags echoing across alleyways, cracking the compositions of depth. They sought solace in what disjointed forms they could summon, wrapping thoughts around static tongues glimmering hints of parabola light.
Step into the Murmurs