Can silence ever be fractured, if each still moment whispers of unspoken truths? In these vacuums of understanding, what draws us closer to the depths of our own consciousness?
A longing for connection, wrapped tightly in the absence of noise, coils like ivy longing for ancient stones—but recklessly, silence begets solitude.
Consider the echo: every moment passed ricochets against the barriers of existence.
In the conversation between hearts, what is heard? Fraction of a thought, like shards of glass glittering beneath the sun?
Each fragment spinning, dislocated yet resonant, drawing near gravity wells of emotion—are we but moths to a flame, courting the inevitable?
As the world oscillates between perception and being, what becomes of our dreams abandoned in quiet corners? Look upon
Whispers of a fading dusk, feel the tremor of clarity lurking just beyond the visibly fractured stillness.