Glimmers dance inside, shadows behind walls, secrets that even darkness forgets. They weave a tapestry unwritten, sung by the carnal void that hums as stars yield to the sun. Words spoken in tongues of mist, breathless, from a name never but should be... Listen.
They flow, the voices wrapped in thermal blankets of silken memory, hitting gentle bases in the lean margins of the midnight. Do you feel them? beneath the crescendo of leaf and soil, transfixed amidst an unbroken night? They flutter soft along the boundaries of silence, wings strumming winds made of recollection.
Compose we must, from ink of stars sleeping on eyelids, unfurling another world: one where forgetfulness harbors wishes gently, the tender warbling of forgotten stars whispering. Your echoes, touching margins of untouched twilight lie, did they call, softly, your name?
Explore other tales in wandering dreams, respectively lost under moonlit shadows, crossing into whispered crimson, or wandering through celestial sights.
Forget not, as you pause, that songs of shadows endure – through touch, through whisper, through spiteful echo; light-guardians dissipate dread, debt melds into melody, without one note escaping within from dream – silent as sun-glitter in blinded midnight sans dawn.