Here in the grand theatre of the imagined heart, an inept conductor doles out silent symphonies. The pulse of irony clashes against a backdrop of breath we've borrowed—and yet, we've been asked for exits.
In the flickering glow of shades unheard, we applaud darkness. Our invisible light remains unseen—not because it lacks brilliance, but because it mocks the shadows' pretension.
Listen closely or pretend you're somewhere else entirely in this rehearsed anarchy.
As you scroll, remember:
only the brave hearts
carry the real beats.