Here, in the twilight corners—where the umbrella trees whisper secrets to the breeze—the thoughts arise like bubbles in a forgotten glass, floating, longing to be noticed, to be remembered. Have you dined with a cloud today? The taste on your tongue—cotton candy and echoes of childhood laughter, flotsam on the sea of time.
The clock ticks differently when unobserved; it waltzes with shadows. Each tick another heartbeat, unheard. When midnight arrives, the gallery opens—the constellations compose the art, each fragment a harmonic note in the night’s opus. You spoke of sailing to the moon last night, did you not? The dream sailed with you, silently tracing the curves of your aspirations.
Whispered Songs often linger longer than Silent Echoes, but in this place, everything harmonizes, folding in on itself, ephemeral as silk.