The past hums at frequencies untuned to the ear, a symphony of unwritten notes pressing against the skin. When silence breathes, do we listen for its purpose or its absence? In the dance of futures undone, a melody remembers, always backwards.
We once strided across infinite canvases, spread wide only for the soles of dreams. Each step backward reveals more to the canvas, correcting the colours that fade at dawn.
Time, a player on loop, has its own tune. It rewinds with intent unknown, perhaps pausing before a crescendo yet unattainable. All we hold are fragments, echoes of reversed symphonies.