The silent metronome of our monochrome minds clicks eternally. Tick, tock, deafening awe in absence of hue, sobered beats, drummed in dusty air.
We traverse this empty stage, upturned bowler hats concealed by introspection. We few, the monochromatic dancers, wielders of invisible paintbrushes, daubing silence with strokes of quietude.
They ask, Are you lost?
Yet, we’re profoundly untracked, syncopated with shadow's dull embrace, seasoned by monotonic ambrosia. They surely comprehend our hermit symphony: rhythm locked in blinds, deaf cadence of the room.
Famed for our poignant asphyxiation of the ordinary, we wade through gray puddles filled with reflections of solemnities nobody sees. Life rehearses its script well here, on the cusp of surrendering irony for reverence. Alas! Verisimilitude.
If to echo was not our art, would hue dare sully the irony rippling tympani of our filled-to-void shores?
Perhaps, dear friend, all roads will conclude here. The symphony of one sways, debonair and distinctly still.
Your perceptual wanderings may continue here: Echoes of Dust | Quartet of One