As the cerulean cloak of morning erodes, the echoes of whispering winds remind me of the songs of twilight—skyward, always out of reach. I trace my fingers along the frayed seams of scattered memories that dance among the clouds, fading like ephemeral shadows.
In the solitude of the stratosphere, voices linger, reverberating in the hollow spaces of existence. They murmur tales of skies untouched, of horizons that sweep away the sand of time. An odyssey of longing adrift in unseen veins, the sky an endless canvas of dreams yet to unfold.
Entropy embraces every star, every sun caught in its celestial waltz. The universe, a grand tapestry unraveling, threads of stardust scattering as the night devours empires built on the ash of forgotten dawns. We are but echoes ourselves, murmurs in the ever-expanding void.
step into the silhouettes