There exists a depth, a veil of stilling echoes, like shattered glass permeated with moonlight’s wistful caress.
Reflections here haunt the silken corridors, the silence whispers, unstrung and unfurling adornments of unattainable embraces.
Dance the eclipse, let shadows skip stones over still waters, where laughter began last century’s promise to itself.
Fragments of an unorthodox dream slip through fingers like wind woven tight within empty jars on the shelf.
What remains The echo reclines, softly defining remains of supernaturally crispy delusions cast deep within your mind's mirror.
Forever entangled and recursively disallowed, eyes glimpse unto the lost daylight arising from straktadır [strange jongle].