In the quietude of night, when the universe groans softly, the dust of imagination coalesces into visions unspoken. Shadows speak to shadows, ticking away in a syncopated dance.
Seven incomplete thoughts skim over the surface—forgotten memories wrestle for clarity, most break free like little meteors, some clatter in a cocktail of silence.
Creation tunnels through the veil. A stitch here, a loop there; the loom reluctantly whirs to life beneath ghostly fingertips. What truths tell themselves in the chaos?
A mirror shows the inner realms—faint fades of artistry—but behind it, is merely a shadow dashing across crystalline dreams. Each thing born, a reflection of a whisper that dared seek form.
The rhythm of breath becomes a drum; an echo, wrapped in dusk, lingers on the cusp of everlasting twilight. An artist's nights merge and meld often, a visage abloom with questions that cyclone through dust.
Ponder a world of capstone shadows—these beguiled bobs whisper of what our awakened souls refuse. Creation, a procession of— Time, Past Echoes, Fractured Thoughts navigates towards dizzying depth and brevity all intertwined.