Can this symphony be heard in silence, where the collision of heartbeats creates a rhythm unbound by fleeting sheets? Underneath the analog sky, the horizon bends and whispers.
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And there, in a garden washed by rain, roses bloom like secrets, aching to be uttered. A truth caught in the kaleidoscope of fleeting whispers.
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A dance of light and shadow, of yearning and electric quivers; on wings of luminescence, the specter of a symphony refracted by time.
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