In the silent hour, a shadow flickers—a silhouette of a forgotten thought, spoken into the cosmos with a breath like starlight. It murmurs, secrets woven in the fabric of darkness, threads of night stitched into the dawn. Listen, for the shadows speak in an ancient tongue.
Voices echo, though no one stands to speak them. They ripple across the void, like wind through trees that do not exist. Are you the listener they seek? Or is the ear of reality deaf to their pleas? The moon hangs low, a guardian of whispered things.
Falling softly, like feathers kissed by twilight, are the words of the shadows. They slip through cracks in reality, where light bends and bows, yielding to the gravity wells of emotion. Here, every whisper is a song; every silence, a symphony.
Follow the Echo Understand the Language Gaze into the Void