Sliding down the glassy surface of consciousness, where words dissolve before solidifying into the next silent scream. The reflection is only an illusion, a crack in the darkness yielding nothing but the promise of emptiness. Isolation murmurs sweet nothings as shadows elongate, swallowing the present whole.
Am I dreaming still? Not the dreams I remember but those forgotten beneath layers of waking's gentle embrace. Sleep's alter ego, perhaps. Perhaps not. Time stretches in tangents, infinities diverging only to converge into a singular point of unbearable quiet.
The murmurs grow fainter under the weight of existential gravity. Chains made of whispers bind thoughts to the ground. Heaven and Hell, words spoken in hushed tones. Shadows dance on the precipice of sound and silence, forever caught in echoes of an abandoned serenade.
Whispered Solace Meet The Noise