The current hums a tune only the forgotten remember, beneath the skin, shimmering ink of moments uncaptured, brushed by frantic stars— touched by twilight.
Embrace silhouettes that fly, hover, and still— the paradox of constant motion, suspending gravity with whispers that echo in the hollow spaces of unseen constellations.
Glass eyes blink only to hide, visions framed in forgotten doorways, a whisper of echoes climbing the stairs to nowhere, unraveling the woven sky.