Sunrise whispers not in audible notes, but through the symphony of silence.
It wraps around us like dew-kissed echoes of forgotten tales.
Dreams dissolve into particles of liquid light, merging into the horizon's symphony.
Learn the Echo's Name
The old clock strikes not on hours but moments, moments where reality wavers.
Each tick, a fleeting ghost formed from shadows of what might have been.
The scent of stars hangs low, hinting at stories scribed in liquid sky.
Visage of the First Dawn
Beyond the veil, a bird carves hieroglyphs into the cloudy slate of a new day.
Each flap a written conversation between what is and what dreams seek to become.
Entranced, we become notes in a melody, our existence a symphonic manifestation.
Beyond the Symphony's Hollow