As midnight unfurls over an island of stolen moments, we stand at the precipice of this aching embrace. Our truth, however ugly, emerges not unlike a serpent shedding its shimmering skin — raw, undenied, an open wound begging for the caress of time.
Discover the whispers

Your eyes reflect the dim glow of candelight, each flicker a reminder of joys we buried between tender words and silenced dreams. Can you hear the whispers? They ride the breath of autumn winds that sweep over forgotten paths. Truth becomes a mirror, not of glass but silvered by the age — not the safest image of ourselves captured therein.
Gaze upon the mirror

There lies splendor even in this grotesque honesty. Our hearts etch the familiar agony into the canvas of night as distant stars witness our fragile eruption. The ugliest truth worries at the edges of this stitched-together tapestry, yearning always for daylight.
A night fable