Begin where the whispers curl in the wind; wounds are but echoes of aching souls weaving through threads of perception.
When words cease to delineate, silence stretches like midnight fences; how often we share in the shadows of unexpressed sorrow?
Cargo of hollowness, as deep as ocean's breath, music hidden in writing—a transient riot of resolve borne from vestiges of intricate distress.
Lamentations scatter like autumn leaves encased in milliseconds; a precarious dance before dissolution into life's tapestry once what matters vanishes.
Transcendent—reflection feeding on wounds, rapturous solitude that assays fools prior to agony. Such heights, where laughter laps us into its labyrinth!