In the solitude of thought, we stumble upon forgotten melodies.
The past hums softly, like a lullaby sung by a mad traveler.
Nostalgia's grip is gentle, yet it leaves an indelible mark.
Each spiral in my mind reveals paths untaken, conversations unspoken.
The echo of your laughter dances in a dimly lit corridor of yesteryears.
Have you met the shadow under the well’s old moon?
It whispers stories of yesterdays dressed as remnants of today’s madness.