In the cold stillness above, I gather my purpose as a whispering particle. When the sky unfurls and I set free, I fall with grace—a lone wanderer among many.
Feeling echoes of lives below, where earth meets sky—how fragile we all are, entwined in the breath of the storm. This tumble is neither shameful nor boastful; it simply is.
I remember the drip of forgotten conversations, fragmented like the shards of a broken mirror upon which dreams dance.
A world listens: pens scratch old pages, while others sip memories, echoing back through silver cups. Listen deeper—the story never ends, nor does it start.
Drifting through blurred existence, between essence and incident—lubricants of tides, an intersection of stories spilled, unintended yet poignant.
In puddles, I find solace, their surface is a canvas. Beneath, sustenance murmurs their seeking, their plea. Embrace the drop—see yourself in every lens, as I do reflectively.