In the cavernous slipstreams of dormant dreams, a whisper ripples through the ink-laden air, feeding on silence, craving form. It grasps at moments, flickering in twilight.
Echoes are the shadows of sound, caught in a dance between realms; touch the unseen vibrations they leave suspended, like a breath woven with the threads of oblivion.
The murmurs speak not of beginnings nor ends, yet they sing of now, a fleeting conjunction of what was and what could be, forever trapped in amber-tinted glass.
Beneath the surface of forgotten riverbanks, they linger, telling tales of paradox and echo, echo and paradox. Do you hear them?
Like a triangle in a circle's embrace, the murmurs intertwine, tracing geometric shadows on the mind's eye.
Follow the pathways of thought, where intent and intuition serenade the universe in whispers—silent, profound, eternal.