Every beat echoes through shadows like whispers at dusk, the kind of whispers that waft through an old home, unraveling secrets draped in midnight blue, like a grandmother's shawl folded into mysteries. What is rhythm except a pulse of life running through the wires?
We move beneath the moon's alchemy; fluorescent brush strokes painting our souls in transient strokes, where each shuffle tells tales of valley dwellers and dancers long forgotten.
So tell me, oh splendid voyager, are you swaying or are you still? Can you taste the glow of tomorrow in the rhythm of motion?
Journey Towards Rhythm Listen to Echoes of Old Dance with Sparkles