The clock strikes an age-bound silence, where echoes of muted laughter linger in twilight shadows. Time drips like wax from the candle, pooling in remnants of dreams unwoven.
"Do we measure moments by the weight of our words or the space between breaths?" the questions haunt like phantoms at dusk.
This quota we keep is but an illusion, a distant echo of numbers floating in cold, sterile data. We chase deadlines like whispers trailing behind the fog, flickering out of reach, leaving behind only shaded outlines of what once was.
Visit Cavern for echoes captured in long-forgotten texts. Or glance at Weathers, where the sunset shows its true colors just before surrendering to night.
The heart beats softly, creaking like an old wooden floor — each sigh a lullaby to the haunting nights filled with forgotten burdens.
"Perhaps we’re all volumes unwritten, set free in the winds of unfulfilled quotas, wandering through an infinite expanse of waiting."