Drift in the inked whispers curling at your edges. Limbs heavy with echoes of forgotten conversations. Breaths, lost between heartbeats, stutter like static on an abandoned frequency. Radiate sound, flicker phantom, each wave a ripple through time's suspended ocean. Dance with the void, where glimmering hues fade into the abyss of echoes. Each sound, a ghost in the neural corridors, haunting scriptless dialogues, spoken in the language of stars. Embrace the silence, yet listen—there's a crescendo beneath the surface, slowly seeping through the fabric of dreams. Time is a circle, not a line. Each ripple returns to its origin, a neverending murmur in the flux. Hold onto the phantom, let it guide you through this maze of silent harmonies.