When the wind howls through the canyon, it carries voices from a time before we knew time. It speaks of journeys made by candlelight, where each step was a dance with shadows cast by embers. Somewhere, a clock ticks—each second a drop of water wearisomely carving stone.
In the dusty corners of our minds lie fossilized memories. They are remnants of ancient worries—about paying a debt or tending cattle under the sun. Strange how these thoughts persist, echoing off the walls of consciousness, like distant chimes at twilight.
Beneath the soil, stories remain buried. Tales of salt and sea, of longing and wanderlust. Unspoken words wrapped in layers of earth, waiting for the curious to unearth them. Each layer—a chapter; each grain—an epiphany.