In the hollowness of midnight, where shadows slip through the cracks of momentary silences, I find the fragments of dreams I was once too afraid to claim.
The skies have changed in colors unknown, hues that speak of voices forgotten, humming softly through the corridors of time.
Why do echoes linger when their origins have long faded into the notes of bygone symphonies?
Perhaps it is within this fragile tapestry of whispers that one may find the resonant truth. The stars listen closely.
Each step I take is tethered to the phantoms of intentions not fully realized, pulling at the edges of fragile realities.
The scent of rain against parched earth reminds me of the pages left untouched in the book of my desires, waiting patiently for the chance to turn.
Steps in the sand, erased by the tide, only to be rewritten again by the great hand of time.
Is it the journey, or the echoes of the journey, that truly shape the ripple in the vast tapestry of existence?
I inhale the epilogues of forgotten tales, creating words spoken only in whispers, gentle as the lull of twilight.