In the stillness of the night, shadows speak in tongues forgotten,
and the silence reverberates with the screams of the unsaid, clawing at the edges of dreams.
Ink stains on paper like memories on the mind, uncontrollable, undeniable, a torrent unleashed.
Voices that aren't yours, yet they echo, echo, ECHO through the cobwebbed corridors of thought.
Wings of moths beating against the glass, a relentless pursuit of light that burns them whole.
Write down the whispers, catch them before they fall into the abyss, but who will read them? Who, WHO?
The stars hum a quiet lullaby, a dirge for the forgotten.
The wind carries words, stray thoughts lost, wandering.
An echo, a whisper, a scream, the cycle continues.
An unseen hand writes, erases, rewrites the script of existence. Paths obscured by time and SPACE.
The night breathes, a living entity, and you are a traveler in its womb. Journey onward.
Remnants of thoughts, scattered like ashes, forgotten in the dawn's embrace.