As if pulling threads from a tapestry, these fragments dislocate before our eyes, begging to know their beginnings. Unraveled and unedited, the stories remain buried within the confines of mountains yet to be climbed.
A description floats amidst the cacophony: “Histories inscribed on dry leaves, whispering the conclusions of storms and tornadic embraces — chronicles stubbornly writing themselves between breaths of indifference.”
Such is the paradox of works unfinished, dangling like words at the end of a breath— like this entire journey shaped but left unexplored, ebbing just past recognition. Standing at the precipice of curiosity.
Flow through rivers of ink where verses conflate and pigmented spirits wander. Can time sculpt forms from silence?
Dive deeper into the abyss and clutch the unfamiliar tales embedded in shadow.
Explore the unwritten; you are a whisper in forgotten paragraphs essentially waiting to form a narrative that transcends language.