There's a whisper in the night, caught between the fractures of our dreams and the vast emptiness above. It's pragmatic, ordinary—sings of quiet journeys through stardust, reflections on a life seeping softly into oblivion. A tale marred by the relentless flow of cosmic tides.
Your shoes scuff the dirt road, leaving behind impressions that tell their own quiet stories. Stories that clamber over fences, circumnavigate oblivious streetlamps, threading heartbeats across mesh stars knitted in the sky.
Listen closer as the conversation ebbs with the tide—like autumn leaves stuck in a breeze, swaying slightly, surrendering piece by piece to the inevitable. A kafkaesque ritual of shedding.
Here, under this transient sky, the soliloquy isn’t whispered; it’s broadcast. A humble message scrawled on the fabric of space, unraveling in the folds, stitching together the whispered histories of wandering souls.