In the grand void of pathless solitudes, where the wind's whistle sings an off-key opera,

one finds the immersive solitude enemy, primarily known for their persistent footfalls in echoes.

Ever tried to dance a jig with your own shadow on a Tuesday morning? It might reluctantly suggest a tango,

but the rhythm is always best followed in quiet laughter—composed theorizing of symphonies in our mind’s less-traveled corridors.

The wind, your most enigmatic orchestra, never rehearses the bumps it gives direction. Yet, here you are, the solo conductor.

How to maintain composure when tree branches attempt to play the brass section by their own whims? It's all about the silent score.