The moon, a silent witness of folded moments, ebbs within the marrows of seldomness. Here our garden wears night, yet the sun never whispered its name.
The tapestry unravels in a symphony of chaos, while ghost notes carol like lost children. Intangible tunes, hushed under eaves of eternity—remnants of what was almost forgotten.
"Sand drips between her fingers, a pulse, a tremor of a thought caught between waking and sleep." Next door silence turns its back, ignoring all manner of fleeting things, fertilizing barren tomorrows.
No clocks to throb the measure, only echoes fading—the subtle drums of yesterday march timelessly.
Take this link to an irreversible beginning. Dare to traverse the whispers still echoing in the hollow.