The ink of untold stories drips in silent rebellion, submerging truths beneath layers of forgotten memories.
A void that vibrates, whispers blackened questions to the shimmering fishing line of unborn thoughts, trembling... waiting.
It is here, the unfurling of peripheries; ink slips into forgotten spaces, becomes the elixir of existential musings, cradled in murk.
Breath of the past, invisible stings of the present, where nothing stretches—it artfully insists on being seen.
Echo... Bubbling echoes dance and ripple through spectral corridors, laced in aquamarine darkness, fluttering shadows filled with potential.
Can you taste the pastel silence of ghosts on their tiptoes, prowling between frayed memories?