Divisions of Phantoms
In the quiet moments before dawn, the air carries whispers of yesterday's burdens, softly unraveling the threads of reality, one phantom at a time. Listen closely, for the echoes resonate. See your reflection.
The streetlight flickers as shadows dance, casting silhouettes of forgotten conversations. They linger, just out of reach, almost tangible. The phantoms speak in hushed tones, secrets carried on the wind.
Outside the window, rain taps a steady rhythm, a hypnotic beat that invites contemplation. Each droplet a phantom, a transient ghost on its way to the earth, leaving behind stories untold. Enter the night.
A clock ticks in the distance, marking time with ruthless precision. Yet, time is a phantom too, slipping through fingers like sand. Clocks are silent guardians of the divisions, watching as phantoms waltz through the corridors of thought.