Somewhere in the whispers of time ripples, transechoes that slip and merge,
neither here nor there, a solitary voice whispers in the dense fog, not in words, but in sensations.
Lines drawn in the sand of existence, crossing, fracturing, creating new texts in the landscape
where the world forgets itself momentarily and sighs.
Here, beneath layers unseen, lie the faultlines, waiting, breathing in rhythm with the heartbeats of subterranean giants. A resonant echo,
of whispers heard only in dreams, an echo of echoes, tracing back the thread to unknown origins, stitched into the fabric of
solitude and time.
Shadows flicker at the edge of consciousness, fragmented images ripple like heat on distant horizons, blending and bending the light
in ways understood only by those who walk these hidden trails where silence speaks louder than a forest in spring.