Here in the undergrowth of time's passage, where steps grow hesitant under the weight of moonlight, silent murmurs coil around the unwritten paths. Paths traced not with footsteps but with the delicate, persisting fabric of future whispers. Again, again, it calls...
The horizon stretches like a promise, like a greet of old marble. If only you could touch it to know its truth, forever elusive, yet ever-present. Streams of awoken pasts trail behind like the fading silhouettes of lost stars.
Here, the records scratch, loop, and leap, betraying a universe more human than it dares to be, dancing between the corded echoes of yesteryear. Were these fragments once understood or merely whispered, brushed aside like the dust of old tales?
In circles of looping energies, where the past is a brother to the anticipation of what will be, the mimicry of time finds solace. Resonating voices, chilling smiles, speaking truths abstracted from closeness, straddling the thin veil of knowing and being oblivious. Again, the murmur, again.
Yet here, even silence revolves, coaxed by unseen harmonic forces, making music with its absence. Shadows of idea-breeding caves reverberate with the crickets of future whispers; can you hear their captivating song? Once more, it is told...