In every shadow, an echo whispers about horizons never seen — stitched together from seams of forgotten dreams, floating on a tide of grey uncertainty.
Why does the horizon call, when called upon it fades, and why does silence speak when dreams lay scattered like stars untethered?
Take the path down the edge of perception, through whispers not meant to be heard, past shadows too heavy to see;
where the breath of the sidelong wind murmurs secrets to the sand, pallid and ephemeral, until everything is nothing, stitched and stitched again.
And the once-was horizon suddenly fractures, spilling light like glittering glass over ink, dragging the night with it, leaving only silhouettes of endless yearning.
Do you wonder which path to take?
The horizon drifts, and so do we, casting shadows we cannot touch — the fabric stretches endlessly, warming the soul of tomorrow’s forgotten yesterdays.