In the vastness of an empty room, every footstep flutters against the walls, imprinted forever in echoes of a forgotten time. These resonances ripple through the stillness, stirring the specters of untouched dreams.
To dream is to indulge in ephemeral visions, woven from the fabric of hope. Each whisper within the void reverberates, stirring thoughts long past. The dreams scatter like seeds, seeking soil, yet many drift endlessly in the silence.
Sounds that persist—each an echo casting long shadows through time: a laugh, a sigh, the distant howls of yesteryears. They swirl like eddies in a river of possibility, beckoning, yet never arriving.
Voices emerge not from the mouth, but from the heart—hushed confessions that linger in liminal spaces. A longing, a deep-seated ache. Experiences craving recognition become echoes themselves; resonating until acknowledged, forever lingering on the periphery.
Do you hear that?