The night is a silent decanter, too often filled with unanswered dreams. Can you hear the echoes?
Sitting at the edge of wakefulness, thoughts swirl in dark cadences—a dance of whispers seeking solace.
The shadows speak, but only to themselves; the cries within remain untouched, unheard, and veiled by the darkness.
Time moves like a ghost, brushing past like the touch of a long-lost hand. Moments stand still, frozen in the amber of night.
Pour your fears willingly, let them seep into the void. Perhaps in the stark silence, you will find them whole again.
Silent Inkling