Once, the canvas of heaven whispered. Colors like stories, woven into a fabric of light.
Below, the streets hummed quietly, unaware of the celestial dialogues above. People walked,
heads down, tracing lines in the dust that defined their paths but obscured their sight.
Memory of the sky clung to the air like a faded perfume—intangible, evanescent. Shadows played on the edges of vision, gathering remnants of unfulfilled dreams: whispers of vibrant hues that once danced freely, now entombed in stillness.
What is a sky without witness? Without those who dare look up, who dare remember.
The moon, a silent guardian, counted the hours of oblivion below, casting its pale glow
over the entropic decay of moments lost to the mundane.