In the hushed echoes of unspoken words, you hear the whisper of a forest, where light subtly filters through a dense curtain of emerald leaves. It sings of forgotten places, remnants of laughter woven among the roots, longing to be remembered. The air is alive, charged with secrets untold, breaching into consciousness like fleeting dreams at dawn.
Imagine the taste of rain that falls not in drops but in the rhythm of forgotten songs, every note a memory refracted in space. The city fades, its neon glow dimming as if acquiescing to the solemn tranquility of these stolen moments. You sense a pulse beneath the ground, ancient and powerful, intertwining with breath of the universe itself.
The sound of applause reverberates through hollow halls of time, each clap a reminder of lives lived in ecstatic devotion to fleeting beauty—an opera that plays on repeat within the cavern of your mind. Shadows dance along the walls, mimicking the silhouettes of those who once stood there, leaving only echoes of their names.