Fugue Echoes

What lingers beyond the rim of consciousness?

In the hollow of a seashell, whispers of the deep.

Every tidal sigh speaks to an unmarked shore, its stories echoing...

Carried forth by unseen currents, dreams drift like resolutions unspoken.

Each memory weaves through the labyrinth of introspection.

Whispers return, ricocheting off the caverns of thought.

A flicker of the past, fragments dissolved in liquid time.

Isn't it the echoes that define our fugue state, allowing us to ponder the unpursued?