Once upon a frequency, where dreams are sold by the pound, honesty curled in the corners, while irony painted the clouds.
Why does the moon wear shades at night? To stunt the ache of countless winks, hiding gleams of absurdity.
The whispers echo through corridors of forgotten choices, comforting the disenchanted with lullabies of doubt, yet richer in glee.
"Can you hear it?" they ask, the sound of silence adorned in fables, as if skepticism itself softly strums a discarded heartstring.
Truth—an awkward sparkler in a thunderstorm, igniting shadows that giggle inappropriately.
Collapse the noise into a whisper: Reverberations | Static Noises