In the dusty recesses of the mind, where words dare not tread, lie the tomes that whisper tales of yore. Tales that no one asked for, and yet, they persist, like a stubborn fly at a forgotten picnic.
Feathered DreamsEphemeral thoughts float like autumn leaves, each a tiny manifesto. "To read, or not to read?" the existential tome asks, knowing well the futility of its query.
Whispered WishesIronic it is that the loudest whispers are found in the quietest corners of libraries. Here, the dusty pages scream in silence, their messages lost on the indifferent air.
Lost and Found