In the whispered winds of untold stories—do you hear them?— where the skylight meets the doomed thoughts of yesterday's meals, a telephone rings but no one lifts the receiver.
Mind the chasms, they say, in the spaces where people forget the scent of orange lilies on a summer's lament. Or was it violets? The echo's too dense.
Perhaps, perchance, the outer limits of inner dialogues— speak to me, breathe into this gossamer thread, weave it with whispers of choosing paths less traveled and roads unsung.
Here it is, written in a language both alien and known: a lullaby etched into the fabric of night's canyon, where sounds metamorphose into painted skies.
Clicking thoughts like clockwork, ticking in untamed synchronization with the distant star. Are they ours?