So there I was, staring at my ceiling at 3 AM, and then it hits me—life's little abbreviations. Like a glossary without words, where each footstep leaves a chapter unfinished. The thing is, truth isn't always written; sometimes it's wingbeats in whispers, telling stories no one's brave enough to read out loud.
I mean, how many of us have tread these floors like pages in a book, feeling underfoot the imprint of stories yearning to unfurl? Yesterday's worries or tomorrow's dream? When you sit back, the universe unfolds like an origami crane—delicate, brief, ambiguous.
Beneath the flickering light, when shadows stretch lazy over familiar things, we become editors of an unwritten prose—a curious endeavor, isn’t it? Each narrative we craft on the fly, a collision of wingbeats and whimsy.
So, as you wander this nocturnal glossary, remember: every thought left unsaid is just a wingbeat waiting for its wind. Listen closely, and maybe you'll catch their flight paths, weaving webs of meaning in the morning mist.