In echoes of mirrors cast, weaving through a moment sprinkled with dust of intent, we ascend the spirals of sound—a sonata beckoning like whispers trapped in ancient stone.
What lies beneath translucent brambles? Shadows of muses dance, their footsteps resounding in delicate beats; the pulse of existence fleeting as a sigh.
Listen carefully and you may hear orange walking into the room, that visceral dialogue wrapped under layers of silk—impressions of painting-night punctuated by stars. Search ye for strings of spider silk from the void.