Do you remember the whisper in the trees that night? It was like the wind had borrowed a melody from somewhere far beyond. I swear it carried tales of old, hardships wrapped in silver threads, unraveling as softly as your grandmother's shawl in a gentle breeze.
Sometimes, I sit by the window, listening for that tune, treated as, like, a broken radio exuding forgotten urgency. The kind of static that doesn't bother you, instead, it cradles you just right, right end of the day chirping with ease.
The day it rained shards of autumn jewels, didn't feel like a Thursday anymore, rather like we turned pages in a book yearning for the unknown.
And every star up there, you see, carries bits of our stories, drenched in midnight whispers. Go ahead, count them like forgotten coins – each one echoes another piece of a life, another whisper left unheard.
Before the shadows settled, constellations took form — fragile, fragile stories glimmering lonely, grasping toward the ache of our understanding.
Feeling the tension between reality and the mythical every dawn, a whispering song loops eternally under our skin. Let it guide you to places linear maps refuse to acknowledge.
Stumble upon the song itself sometimes, tracing the lines drawn by the night's gentle sighs. Wander, because it's your turn to hum along.