descending echoes, the whispers of yesteryears unravel in the silence of twilight, painting shadows across the labyrinth where paths choose the wanderer, not vice versa, they speak, speak, speak in tongues of forgotten lullabies.
weaving through the fabric of now, threads too fine to grasp, yet they hold a universe of possibility, a tickle on the edge of thought, woven by hands unseen, destined to unravel in dreams, or perhaps in waking idle musings.
before the leap into the spinning cosmos, for every star is a whisper, a secret held between the seconds of a heartbeat, the universe hums a tune only heard by those who dare to listen beyond the noise of mundane passage.
for the joys hidden in the sighs of the wind, echoed softly, like forgotten songs sung by ghosts of old melodies, lingering where sunlight meets shadow at day's end.