In occluded twilight, beneath a whispering murmur, I find myself entangled with phrases that don't belong to this world yet hold exactitude within a dimensional canopy of thought. Moths to gentle flames, words flicker within the nervous diaphragm of night. Who untangles the threads woven by silent weavers?
Glistening under the moon's diluted glaze are sentences not spoken, realms of glyphs making sense without need for ears to catch the hum above our realms. What canopy is this, so festooned in conscience yet threading seams of oblivion?
The philosophers' tent brings transient relief, its shadows splayed upon seeking minds; syllables scatter, arrange, and distort. Have you read the fabric?s?
I feel the canopy near, ducking beneath palms that brush infinite possibilities, all antithesis of meaning schismed into stark coherent abstraction. Coates of lacquer, moments stolen, jewel-locked; where do we hang our trust?
And there, echoes of bent voices speak of this, esoteric cornerstone unrevealed, painted only in a stroke of dusk. Forever letting the veil fall upon form, to lift it never knowing.
Finally, beneath phantasmal cerulean, we find another patch of whispered language, another serene luminescence that beckons... definitely a product of our plastic time, ethereal yet faintly of utensil origins.