Could it be that every shard holds a story of its own?
It began as a whisper, the kind buried under mountain of forgotten lullabies. I had walked paths not intended for my soul, where lamplight pierced fog like a maestro's baton. Each glance at my shadow was like watching history breathe in and out, waiting... anticipating...
In this vast distortion, every kaleidoscope fragment offered an insight tinted not by knowledge, but by sorrow—yours or another's, it hardly mattered. From one broken lens to another, they observe a world ceaselessly spun by aching desire. Was this the artifice of my odyssey—a jailer turned artist?
Echoes declare truths as I quarry the estranged heart of this realm. Wavered patterns of past conversations twitch inside glass prisms, breathing life into wireframe silhouettes. A thought persists: Shouldn't I be more than a theory within metaphysical confines?
Between Shredded Harmonies, Find Me