Waiting is a echo in the canyon of dreams. A solitary footstep on the ancient stones— reverberates, slips softly into the hush, searching for a voice to carry it home.
The heart, a metronome whispering truths in intervals, beats—thrum, pause, thrum, unheard by the world, yet, alive in its rhythmical solitude. Is the wait a mirror cast upon the sea's persistent wave?
Minds wander, free as clouds in a cobalt sky, tracing the unseen map sketched in memories. Paths weave through familiar mist, then vanish like morning fog at dawn’s caress.
Contemplation dances upon the edges, gently mocking the stillness of our breaths. And as the shadows stretch, they whisper: "/hear_the_whispers/"
Would time still flow like ink upon this woken paper? Leaving traces of other worlds, of yesterday's nothings turned into tomorrows. Find solace in the reflection beneath the surface. Murmurs↗
An eternal pause, a shared laugh with the universe, where silence fills the spaces forgotten by words. Here in the dream's embrace, waiting becomes the essence of living.