The valley was whispered into existence by tired constellations seeking refuge from the endless chase. Vines entwined with shadows grasp the gentle curves of the slumbering hills. Morning dew crystallizes, not on leaves, but on silent, waiting words.Silent song.
A timekeeper of unknown origin scribbles in the sand, intentions lost to the wind's persistent seek. Journeys carved by pebbles recount truths unwritten in the harsh tapestry of reality. Echoes drip rhythmically like a forgotten lullaby echoing from the very heart of creation.How old are whispers?.
Sprigs of thought blossom amidst unnoticed foliage, suspended mid-thought — syllables seeking immediate breath. Tidal waves of ancient breath harmonize with scents only meaningful in the forgotten within whispers. What was whispered shall remain — a constellation bound to horizon orfices.Constellations unseen.