Underneath the downfall, where shadows gather and clamor. Was it midnight, or just the echoing silence?
Like roots clasping soil, desperate to hold, to know, The whispers—are they yours or mine? A frantic dance of thoughts, disjointed yet familiar.
Whispering winds amongst the tangles of buried memories, Echoes of disasters both inevitable and obscure.
Spirals of time, like clock hands, yet never turning. Drink deeply of this soil, these roots—our tether.