Once upon the twilight of never-ending afternoon, a whisper looped between glistening fragments of forgetting, trailing its song through the ether with no audience and perhaps an unwilling choir.

Silence shouts in neon shadows while untold stories bleed through mirrors, reflections not seeking eyes but grasping hands touching their truths under hidden skies.

The clock clicks, not ticking but rather fracturing soundless voids, preparing long-sought meals from remnants of stardust dreams.

Pyramids made of whispers—constructed crises—balancing on the edge of the syllable's thought. They murmur. We listen.

"Is it real," she asked, "...or just an echo of what could have been?" Hidden in her waiting eyes was the answer, waiting for questions unasked and paths not taken.

Ghostly glimmer on water that was never there, shimmering truth beneath layers of illusion.

And the refrain: always finding, always becoming—never belonging. Dreams sewn with threads of silence, unravel into the night.