In the dwindling echoes of a muted carnival, dancers without shoes tread silently upon cotton clouds, weaving whispers into threads of vapor and ink. The ivory clock in the corner of the velvet room ticks backwards, counting down from oblivion to origin.
Beyond the mirrored carousel lies a brass-bound diary, where punctuation marks play chess on the blank pages while questions bask under the stars of misplaced answers. The pages rustle but do not turn; they hold tightly to the long-lost names of dreams never dreamt.
Above, a faint hum lingers from the crimson lantern that sways in time, illuminating the forgotten text etched in stone, a view of landscapes that feel both familiar and borrowed from other lives. Be kind to the echoes they seem to cry, their whispers dissolve into the mist, leaving only the imprint of a remembered song.
Touch the Void | Voices from the Past