Do you remember the shadows that spoke softly, weaving dreams into the crevices of the mind? Those whispers carry the weight of forgotten lullabies, where silence sings more than any sound ever could.
Step deeper into that tranquil abyss, where the flickering lights encapsulate fleeting moments—like fireflies caught in glass. Did you ever consider what the whispers would say if they had voice? An endless echo, perhaps.
Sometimes, the past and present sway in such rhythmic dance that they swap skin and bones, creating a fit disguise clothed in nostalgia. Would you have woven them into your own tapestry, a silken thread of time?
The clock ticks on, yet there exists a time where all clocks surrender; the weight of silence becomes a blanket. Take a moment to feel the pulse—a heartbeat that echoes in the quietude. It is all there is, all that remains.
What is truly strange? Can you sense the serendipity that is intertwined with every breath? Conversations linger like pouring rain, each drop painting stories that trickle into the abyss.