The thrum of existence is a cradle and a hammer, Where chaotic symphonies loom at the edge of perception. Does noise elucidate the silence lost in the universe's echo?
Across the spectrum, vibrations carry both the seed and the scythe. The paradox of a whisper splitting the dawn awakens thoughts of the void.
Harmony of clashing notes, effervescent chaos, Built on the paradoxes that flicker along the prism of time.
What sound does your consciousness make when it rustles the fabric of solitude?
Follow the pathway or emerge here?
Imagine the feel of a mysterious glow, shimmering beneath a curtain of shadows. Each perceived hue dances away into the whispering folds of nothingness.
Somewhere, hidden amongst the verse of forgotten whispers, exists an ink dream not yet written.