In the quiet spaces between your pulse and breath, there resides a horizon that murmurs tales of what could be, had time not woven its relentless fabric in rhythms too rigid for the wanderer’s soul.
There stands the vantage of jeering silhouettes, not ominous, nor welcoming—just echoes reflected across pools of light that dim in the early embrace of dusk. A crossroads takes shape where two paths slip in and out through veils of dusk’s whisper.
Ventures made in silken mist contriving memories half sung, half dreamed; the whimsical clock tick-tocks, playing a conductor unto destiny's choreography. What symphony has your cadenza composed in undertones?