Time stretches, an elastic thread weaving through moments that slip silently past. In the corner of this quiet solitude, echoes murmur. Reflections do not speak, yet they listen; their eyes are hollow, pockets of abyss gazing into the soul’s sheen. Here, where the ink forms, the thoughts drip slowly, tracing pathways through the subconscious.
What is hidden beneath the veil we dare not lift? Shadows dance, revealing contours of fears, dreams, and realities we may never inhabit. A gentle breeze carries distant notes of music, unheard by waking ears, but the mind knows them by heart. Follow the melody.
In obsidian calm, a ripple spreads—a soft touch, a warm whisper, a voice long forgotten. "We are but traces," it says, "echoes in the liquid night." The stars blink out their fragmented wisdom, showering the earth with a silent consent.
What lies within cannot be seen, only felt, a presence lurking just beneath the surface of awareness. When you gaze into the abyss, the reflection gazes into you, understanding secrets you dare not acknowledge. There lies a darkness that breathes, echoing your own silent fears.
As you watch the ink drops fall, consider their path. Each drop a decision, a word unsaid, a moment unlived. The silence is a canvas, the echoes, paint. And the veil? A threshold between now and the infinite that beckons, gently, a whisper of forgotten echoes.