There's a rhythm in the rain that speaks only to those who listen without the rush of the day gripping their minds. It's an unending hum, like a bassline undercurrent, resonating amidst the clamor of urban life.
Frequencies dance in the mind, swirling and cascading. Like forgotten letters tucked away in dusty attics, waiting patiently for hands to unfold their stories.
Discover the stories buried beneath dust.
The melody plays, yet it stays hidden, behind the percussion of everyday chaos. Beyond the whispers of the forgotten trees in the park. The rattle of train cars forms an orchestra of its own, one that few would stop to appreciate.
Hands shake frequently, but not violently. Under shaky lights, a painter contemplates the dissonance of color and form on canvas. Does it speak truth, or does it bleed confusion? Perhaps the truth lies in the eyes of those who dare to question.