In the echo of a whisper, where shadows gather as allies to the unsaid, lies the scream—silent, but omnipresent.
Words unheard float like specters, weaving through the tapestry of thoughts, unraveled and intertwined.
The mind, a labyrinth of echoes, resists the dawn, comforted by the dark’s embrace.
The mind’s mirror reflects not what’s there, but what’s whispered. In the reflection, truth bends, mockingly.
Dreams dissolve like mist in the morning sun, but here, in the quiet fall of night, they linger endlessly.
Every thought a thread, every silence a seam, stitching the fabric of a waking nightmare.
What do you hear when you listen to the silence? The echo, of course. But beneath it, deeper, something stirs. A remnant of what could have been.