The dulcet tones of forgotten summer fields... where laughter becomes wind, carrying whispers untold, across horizons painted in dusk. Was it you who sought the stars, numbering them like dreams lost to time?
In streams of light, the echoes of what could have been — refracted like memories tipped from the edge of an amethyst dew. I see colors bleed into one another, yet distinct, sharp, and refined like truth hiding in shadows. Fragmented silence ignites.
The wails come softly when rain drips on windowpane... a symphony of solitude, an elegy composed for the forsaken. Do we measure heartbeats by the intervals between our sighs?
A journey through echoes, an odyssey in each whisper. Beneath this churning prism lies the core, neither molten nor solid. It sways, thrums; alive in its haunting, a rhythm undefined.
Return, they say, to the source — to where the tale began. Yet, how do we proceed backwards when forward is etched in echoes, forever howling in the vacuum we become when absent?
Diamond shards reflect on vapor, vanished just before noon bleeds into evening. The world mirrors itself, perpetually incomplete. Timeless, they murmur. Timeless...