Curring

When the night breathes softly, the currents of thought dance through the quiet. In their movement, a silent crescendo unfurls — a tapestry woven from whispers and echoes of what was never spoken. Beneath the surface, beneath the shadows, lie the hidden screams, soft as velvet and sharp as glass.

Alone, we traverse these winding paths, seeking solace in the soft murmur of the universe's heartbeat. Our footsteps are measured by the denouement of stars, falling beyond the horizon, casting shadows on thoughts yet untouched, unformed.

Here, introspection becomes a mirror, reflecting not the face, but the essence of being. In this quiet realm, the silent screams echo, echo, echo… until they are but a memory, lost in the void of existence.