The thoughts swim beneath a sea of stillness, echoing in silent depths. Once fervent, now they linger like whispers caught in a timeless jar. Each breath pulls at their transparency—each exhaled word, a ripple.
Amber does not choose; it traps uncertainties in moments fleeting, grasped but not held. A whisper remains there undisturbed, awaiting the courage to unravel. What stories desire expression with specters of past selves?
Shadows draft pale reflections on walls unseen. Deep in the earthen caverns of experience, a voice—echoing only to itself—questions the nature of remembrance: Are whispers composed of dust and light?
An ever-present choice soft as reluctance, fierce as storm: the choice to listen, unravel. To pierce the amber membrane for recreation or understanding. Do they call out in yearning?