A meeting of fingertips in fog-drenched alleyways, where longing meets its silent muse. Amidst the dusky breath of evening, silhouettes dance alone, tracing the curves of memory, longing for touch but finding only shadow.
"I tangle my heart in these errant verses, seeking that which ought not to be sought. You, unwritten, across the crackling linen of the night. I whisper your name in echoes that fade."
Standing amidst towering echoes, the moon unveils the ugliest truth—again only just to see her own reflection. Here exists a love for the bare truth, cloaked in scarlet empathy yet as raw as bare stonework. Achingly tasteless, every bit sweetly sordid.
Journey to the Silent Path