In the hollow chambers of perfumed despair, shadows whisper unbidden thoughts, frozen gestures drift like sighs. Can you hear the murmurs? Curses entwined in desperate syntax, half-formed sentiments cascade like nebulous fog. Perhaps it's the space between echoes that births more fear than sound.
Words carved in moonbeam darkness as thoughts collide yet do not meet—the clock of the mind ticks backwards. Nobody remains when silence deepens, endless tilts flipping reality into decay, artfully splattered feelings against a canvas left unfinished.
Time spills away, lost in shadowplay, fractals of despair are but mere echoes in an abyss of longing; an elegy haunting the corners of fading light. Where do we arrive, but forward, disjointed from roots, embraced by the chaos of forgotten time?