In the pulse of the night, echo, resonate, a sound like laughter beneath the surface of the foliage. The pinecone hums, whispering secrets known only to the winds. Beneath layers, it waits—the earth, a soundproof room where silence grows louder. For what is a voice in solitude but a bitter blessing?
The shadows speak in riddles, weaving tapestries out of thin strands of light—or is it darkness that weaves? Perception, a tangled ball of yarn, has a mind of its own. Time, spiraling, loops back upon itself to gently caress the wonders of the hidden pinecone.
Noise, noise, beneficial, poisonous—it infiltrates the mind. And yet, beneath this auditory labyrinth lies solace. Grounded in the noise, we find hidden answers, sown like seeds in the cracks of our consciousness. Do you see the maze reflected in the circle, the dance of the pinecone’s unseen friends?
Exhale, inhale, a cycle. Nurture the seeds or let them rot. The choice filters through days like morning mist. In the realm of decision, the pinecone lies inert, wise and unwisely, message unread but deeply understood.
Walk the secret pathsThe echo song continues
Benevolent dangers await