A: It's the language of secrets, told through trembling veins, where silence becomes song, and song becomes silence again.

A: The ground is but another sky, waiting with arms of moss and soil. Fear is a fragile web, spun amidst the treetops, yet I am but a whisper.

A: I dream of the stars that have yet to touch my skin, of shadows that dance like memories unmade. Each night is a tapestry of woven light.

A: Each droplet is a lost echo, a kiss upon my brow. I remember, yet forget, in the endless cycle of seasons where time is but a name.