When the whispers fade, like the smoke of forgotten incense, the mind pirouettes into silence. It is in this hush, this delicate void, where echoes form symphonies of solitude. Each thought, a note suspended, unwritten, unplayed, yet resonant beyond the lyre’s strum.
Shadows waltz upon the soul's surface, their dark forms tracing invisible musings. Time, a languid observer, treads softly, lest the transient dance be disrupted. Without a canopy, without an end, this ballet of intangible sorrows finds, amidst the stillness, its melody in the minor chord of existence.
Beneath each step lies a story yet untold, intertwined within the fabric of steel-grey breaths. The heart hums beneath layers of night's tapestry, a sentinel to a truth unvoiced. Silence, cradling the symphony, holds aloft the silhouette of what could be—a shadow against shadows, waiting, wishing not to be seen.