What is an echo, if not the softened cry of a word, longing for the finality of silence? Voices built on grains of sand, scripts rewritten by the moon's pull, tracing unseen paths through a universe softly unwinding.
In this cavern of thought, every murmur oscillates, circling the marrow of its own making. Truths cascading into each other, like waves breaking only to congeal into still reflections under a twilight haze.
A mirrored echolalia of isolation: Where each circle seeks only the gentled harmony of its own refracted sound.