The man on the train but a distant echo, fades like the last notes of a forgotten symphony. His eyes trace the blurred cityscape, yet he sees neither the past nor the present—only the gentle tug of memory, whispered in silent rhapsody.
Morning coffee idles at the bottom of her mug, cold and distasteful. She watches the world go by, zone out, gloss over it like a painter who’s run out of inspiration. The faces flash like echoes, fragments of conversations that never began, silent screams masked by melodic laughter of a world too busy to notice.
An old woman hands out flyers for a concert—irony dancing in its subtlety, where audiences sit still, amidst a sea of motion. She wishes silently for an audience—the kind that listens to echoes, the kind that hears themselves amidst the clamor.