There lies an untold tale when the autumn kisses greens to golden silence. The leaves murmur, in hushed tones, their secrets. Have you ever pondered what the wind hears in its embrace?
This leaf knows, that true beauty withered long before the first draft of rebirth appeared.
Listen closely. The stories are not of the organic; they are the silent tales of inanimate souls, entwined with whispers of self. What does the tired table wish to carve as it envelops the season's narrative into its grains?
The answer lies not within you, but eternally beneath your seated weight.