Whispers of the past intertwine in the air, ephemeral notes spinning a tale of what once was and may never be again. Invisible strings strummed in silence, vibrations lost to the dimness.
The piano played itself in the disarray of loneliness, every key a heartbeat, every silence a memory; a fleeting thought: “Do moments truly create echoes, or do echoes merely drift in the wind? ”
Dark corridors flooded with light from unseen sources give birth to shadows of laughter. They rise, flicker, and falter, succumbing to the weightlessness of existence. “What of the moments not captured? The bits forgotten?”
A strange familiarity lingers in the rooms between dreams, where time folds upon itself like rainbows arching through dust—a paradox, ungraspable. A saxophone weeps in the background; its voice, a siren's call, a mere echo.
In the stillness, a voice calls out. “Do you remember the melody?” Yet, it dissipates like breath on glass—a fog of half-formed memories. The uncertainty cradles the mind; is it lovesick nostalgia or mere figments of the dreaming brain?
The air thickens with stories untold. “Dearest dusk,” whispers a voice not heard—should one leave a memory unclothed, unshielded from the veil of fading apparitions? Silence knows not—further afield is another piece.