In the cavernous halls of absent thought, a voice echoes, uninvited yet intimately familiar. A gravity well of untold stories, drawing upon fragmented words drifting amidst the void.
Here, every silence sings—sings of forgotten memories and shadows dancing in flickering candlelight. The heartbeats of tales untold become whispers tinged with regret, ink-defying the pages they were never scripted upon.
The walls of silence, venerable and poised, remember the sighs of those who dared venture close. Each sigh, a promise to the wind; each wind, a keeper of secrets wrapped in velvet darkness.
Darkness is not an absence, but a presence—it seeps into the marrow and whispers sweetly of what could be, had fate dared to craft differently. Breaths are taken, held gently, and then offered back to the stars scattered like lost thoughts across the abyss of memory.
The hollow space—a chamber of gravity, where emotions fold and unfold, dramatizing the emptiness with sublime operettas, each note hollow yet resonant, each pause a universe of potential.
Turn away, they say Face the whisper, perhaps?