The Whispers of Forgotten Pages

In the untouched folds of existence, where echoes of ink dissolve into silence, specters linger. Observing. Listening. The void calls only to be answered by the dance of pen upon the crumbling margin of now.

Once, a shadow said: Freedom lies in the lines drawn by solitude. And so the artist etched, scribbled, doodled - constructing fleeting realms upon the ink of oblivion.

When the clock yawns, when the silent specters sigh, brother ghosts follow the trails of charred ink, seeking solace in the void of stories untold.

Our existence, merely an echo in the cosmic ledger, transcribed by time’s relentless quill. A chance encounter in the margins, between one breath and the next.