The moon ruminates over quiet waters; its face, a silent echo of the sun's forgotten flame. How many pulses in the haze of daylight fled our burning memory? Each heartbeat a breath, a recollection turning in the stillness.
Beneath aged tree branches, conversations linger, hung up like ghostly garments on pegs of mist. We spoke, and the wind remembered—that was when everything was complete in its incompleteness, wasn't it?
They say echoes fade in the divide of time, but perhaps they merely rest—waiting for us to listen again. The unavoidable theater of once, where past and imminent now breathe in concert...
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