In the shadows of shaky whispers, the trails cease, not to be found but lived; touched by silver, kissed by night.
The stars, pale messengers, trace paths through the lack of horizon; curious remnants of long absent caravans.
Listen — to wander the unseen trails, below rustling pulses of trees, atop whispered halls of existence.
Silent maps, drifting under forgotten winds, carry the weight of untamed lore.
Do you hear the beckoning void? Its song rings through the delicate ease of night, cultivating roads stitched by dreams.
Fleeting Souls