The stories of stolen fingerlings and regret-penned sonatas ooze from every seam. wooden heart. I once cradled night shards from the musician's past—how they ached for applause that never came, yearning amidst dust-covered silence, whispering quietly, "I am not broken; I am abandoned."
Sometimes, late at twilight's embrace, I echo tales your mortal ears might twine around, recordings unreleased for reasons divers unknown. Explore titles left unheard.
Stained inside by dark brew tales of reluctant awakening, prophet of maudlin office serenades, I overhear heated exchanges wrapped in aged caffeine doses—the boss and the crush of yesteryears; heated also were the murmurings about water level rebellion. "They shall not fill me over half," I decree silently in grind coarseness.
Upon nights echoing discontent, I will draw delicate portraits {whisper: "writers remorse,"} indulce beneath desperation.
Here, assorted relics dine on dreams lost to mundane realities—cluttered lists of revival secrets tangled with guilt-laden pens, erased cries in tucked corridors sanctioned under lock's own carelessness. I hoard compositions untouched by light yet incised karmic shadows on note pages no lonesomeness could rectify alone;
Here lies our veneration unmet, relics slack within execution assurance case upon cases unresolved.