The clocks have stopped ticking, replaced by the slow drip of time running unnoticed between fingers clasped tightly over imagined memories. Moments float like paper boats in an endless sea of twilight, gently lapping at the shores of solitude. Here, in the echo of the solstice, the sun whispers secrets to the moon, leaving trails of silver light woven into the fabric of the night.
I step lightly upon the fibers of forgotten dreams, tracing constellations with outstretched fingers, each star a memory lost among the shadows. Do you remember? They ask with eyes unblinking, but I only remember the taste of solitude on my tongue, bittersweet like the fading dusk. The world outside my window breathes softly, a creature of comfort and consequence, lurking just beyond reach.
In this woven tapestry of light and dark, the silent orchestra of the cosmos plays on. Strings made of starlight, percussion of distant worlds colliding, a symphony without a conductor — or perhaps conducted by the hands of fate. And I, a lone violinist, play my part in the quieter moments, where the audience is naught but the wind whispering against the walls of my sanctuary.