Whispers like brass canopy stretched across the sky, an echoing murmur when reversed time coil suppresses existence. Are the galaxies singing, or have we begun to listen?
The sound of awayness tinged like autumn leaf obscured with morning dew, swimming through the sonata circles of ceaseless wander.
A rhythm beneath every pulse of eternity, whispering secrets aliens disguised; breaches break free upon horizon rock without purpose. Listen closely to the inverted chorale — it resonates now, fleeting but profound.
The void hums back like a recursive bandolier torn dazzlement, reaching with hands of whites evanescent wings. Is this laughter or lament?