...of evenings draped in golden silence, shadows linger half-formed, scent of time passing—beyond converging threads in the fabric of the enigmatic...and so it is stitched like memories the mind weaves while sleep-silhouetted whispers remain unaddressed...
The streetlamp stands beaming illumination, a lighthouse for the lost, yearning for navigation in dark alleyways of thoughts, where abandoned stories paint silhouettes sketched of pain and joy fading whispers seep through rotted junctions leaving behind remnants of cacophonies barely remembered...
Lost colors swirl within transitory nights, echoes vibrating in parallel realms, searching for connections long evaded, as words swirl around in spirals, searching for their symmetry, their purpose, reaching for echoes distinctly their own...