In the hollow chambers of a forgotten library, pages flake like dead skin against the somber walls. Sentences pause mid-breath, forever adrift, seeking sentence structure in the dark. Each word trembling in its existence, hovering like a ghost waiting to speak.
One might stumble upon dialogues of shadowy figures, echoing laughter that never quite rang true. Emotion, encaged. Feelings bound by elastic scruples—the quivering threads of desire stretch across the pages like cobwebs.
Memories follow the spine of each tale, fluid-serpent style, slipping beneath the grasp of comprehension. The endings that were left unwritten hunched over the milk-white pages awaiting a hand that never came.
The discomforting delight of words unsaid curtails the breath; they hover just at the edge of perception, ready to catapult into consciousness. They brush against the silence, exhaling fragments of thoughts like saffron in a dark room.
Lingering at the crossroads of language and loss, navigate deeper into