In the silent frequency, where whispers weave, a static hum—echoes of the forgotten speak. Listen now, to the shivering sound, they are suspended words from a language, lost.
A rhythm, oh so gentle, draped in steel murmurs, murmurs that mesh with lists of shifting dreams, static notes, notes that drown in time, summoning echoes that bleed through forgotten seams.
Echoes bleed like time swallowed in twilight haze; the swallowed words speak—without tongue, without mouth. They hang there, poised perilously on silence's edge, timeless letters inscribed on the windswept sound wave.