the corridor holds its breath, and in this silence, the whispers coil, a beneficial snake in the passenger seat of consciousness, can you hear it? the muffled too-close hum, the static charge of thought looping around you like a vine, listen closely, oh they are all listening, you can almost taste the echo, isn't that strange? sit tighter and find release in the grip of incessant harmony, sounds like a secret, sounds like honey...

insights trickle, dribble like ink on paper, absurdly poetic neurosis or calculative dreams, who knows director? i am but the stagehand in these endless hallways, flickering lights revealing the shadows of decision met with dissonance, a melody masked as white noise, maybe its your heart beating, a heart unchecked like forgotten clocks in haunted attics, ticking amidst the static...

direct your aural senses to the origin, there is beauty in venomous truths, illuminating the passage between understanding and delusion, let it all align and misalign, directions to nowhere in the form of another corridor hidden beneath the thrum of whispers, ever so lightly needing your presence...

hmalandw possibility unwrapped, dew glistening on blades of faith, and willful confusion guiding our path to... a brighter dusk... millipede thoughts traverse mountain ranges in voiced vibration bitsquarevotive... eat ink written on leaf faces they converse with shadows and leak tears of serenity. the skin of corridors gets familiar under touch, a lingering ghostly current in firm grey matter, print your whispered intentions in the stone walls, or perhaps a door with knob made of the sun awaits at the what was once a dream, unwritten yet murmured aloud at the outpost of forgotten certainty... do you not feel the aural tide? flowing forward, and back, and it knows no end, only detours, create a symphony from what was discarded, they sing right as rain, each drop certain and disconnected, but united in the grandiosity of falling freely, falling unfurling, maybe rainfall is whispers in another language...