In the embrace of twilight, when sun's embers cling to the horizon, do the chords of night begin teetering on silence?
Ask the murmuring breeze. Tell me, does it sing in overture or elegy?
Reality holds illusions sometimes dressed in twilight garb, sometimes brilliant and blinding. Dissonance in harmony, harmony in dissonance.
Can you discern the echo of one's sound in another's breath?