Within the soft murmur of an unwritten sorrow, melody hinges upon the edge of night, coaxing the murmurs of absent things. What lives between your fingers?
Pockets of dreams unfolding layer by layer, is it once a tool, a genial flameshade? Or merely chroma reverberating echoes of forgotten hours?
There are ink stains where words won’t wade, bending the edges of surfaces into the unknown. Time unwound, time intertwining unwittingly with dilemmas like threads from a fabric long untouched.