There exists a place in the muted refuse of twilight—not of the living or the dreaming. Here, blindly, the shadows weave anew what has long been left in unyielding slumber. The air hangs heavily, saturated by echoes of sighs never spoken, words clinging to the void like cobblestone memories.
These are notes from beyond the visible, chronicling the linger of a hand never quite there. The phantom limb, reaching yet never touching, enunciates the darkness that grazes every waking hour with phantom fingers.
- Documented whispers on the seventh hour: "They murmur." Said the forsaken wind.
- Unfurling the question of existence—Does the shadow remember?
- Unseen silhouettes performed in silent orchestrations, eternally unfinished.
A clock ticks and no one is there to hear its hollow heartbeat; a clock strikes the hour of remembrance, and it bleeds like the dawn breaking over unseen realms.