Within an empty room, it begins—the whisper of a forgotten note, spinning like dust motes in angled sunlight, dancing alone with no partner in sight. Clocks tick backward here, each moment devoured by ravenous absence. Did you hear it? The sighing of echoes when voices are far too near in dreams. The sweetness of melancholy drapes like mist, etching lines in the air where once warmth embraced the chill.
Surfaces conceal hidden depths, layer upon layer, like pale make-up on a ghostly visage. Rhapsody in gray, unraveling threads of silence soothe the restless heart. It's not a question of existence, more a reverence for absence, a shadow's lullaby. The walls remember stories never told aloud, but alive nonetheless.
And as we traverse this enchanted void, let the sonic waltz cradle our woven memories—distant, yet near. Each step echoes in a rhythm divine, unforeseen futures grooving with ashen pasts.