Somewhere over the gradient of existence, whispers linger in forgotten corridors — the echoes of laughter, the scent of rain on dry earth, a moment, frozen, fleeting. She said, "Do you really think...?", and the question remains unanswered, a ghost in the ether. As clocks dissolve into sand, dreams weave themselves into the fabric of reality, unraveling at the seams. Shadows dance, silhouettes of thoughts left unspoken, mere phantoms of a shade.
A single line fractured into infinite possibilities...do the words ever fade?
And beneath the surface, buried under layers of whispers, the mine of thoughts continues to expand, fracturing, splintering... Time is the architect of chaos, the artist painting moments in strokes of absence. Somewhere, a conversation about the nature of self, the identity untethered by mirages of permanence. Do we ever stop to listen... to ourselves?