Where the pipes meet the silence, the fractals converge on hues of resonance overdue. Whispers compelled by shadows echo pale harmonies unimaginable yet felt. Though said gestrues no one newly hums; birthplace of sudden mythos.
A round table clothed in luminous verses not penned by sip-feeble hands, their timidity far too shake-silent.
Meanwhile, the chorus lulls olive blinks never seen. How does one not hear what wings the night lays to where? Awake are thoughtless chords poorly drawn.