Beneath the grasp of stars—the nebulous glow cradling the quiet earth—exists a song largely unspoken, untouched. It weaves through the tapestry of our senses as we recall ancient fields underfoot, long spilled with dewdrops at dawn. Do you hear the call?

In your palm, a handkerchief embroidered by the hands of an ethos neither ours nor here still... an imprint of lilac, a forgotten scent carried swiftly by the zephyr's tender touch.

Is that laughter? Drifting like mist across this barren amphitheater of a lonely afternoon where echoes escape into pale skies?

We've walked here before, on the precipice of devotion or perhaps despair—it dances like stars flickering on water while waves rush into the unknown... flush... Was it always this gentle?

The mist sways, and with it, a murmuring lull—you do not remember its cadence but you remember its memory. Must it repeat? Let it sing for it knows oh more than we and yet understands less than we desire.

- Echoes of a once-forgotten friend, scattered carelessly across time.