In these shadowed corridors, echoes of notes untold, they murmur.
Flutters of sound, like will-o'-the-wisps, dancing ever so lightly, with fervor lost. Have you heard them, those cradle songs that reverse? Her voice was marble and sand, a relic of what could be. Once upon a note, before silence tasted the air...

The clock does not reverse. Tick tack, the sands refuse backward climbs, yet in forgotten spaces, collapsing songs descend, step by step, seeking solace in their unroling silence.
Voices repeat, sutured, soldered 🌕 like echoes traced upon curled manuscripts. Mirthless, yet wise, as memory borrowed songs linger, my muse, spinning threnodies.

Can we unhear what we wish to reverse forever?
Rhythms pull, gravity whispers through brass tearing at paradigms... Smooth I've always had, slipping through keystrokes, fake fingers 🌕 again silent, weaving classical silks unstrung and heavy. We murmur through fragmented chant dividers, cut strings, tight spaces... Oasket, basket of teardrops unreturned.