Somewhere between breaths and unwritten pages lies the truth of shadows. The ink bleeds life into a canvas of absence, folds of identity unwinding in the margins. What speaks in silence whispers, yet remains obscured — perhaps that which calls on the edge of sleep.
Crescent Thoughts: Ever mooned, wanting, waxing? Time scribbles obstinate runes upon blithe minds as parched pages sigh, invoking nature's reproof. Titles, empty stone sills, what's the harvest awaiting?
Premises tangential to dreams, pearled tales merge between lines of restless prose. Such were guise and dalliance—what letter had your name clothed beneath its crests? forgotten echoes rumble now.
Place-Holders of Dreams: Enigmatic, quietude dangles on edges of time's recursive shift. Every glance measures distances pulled anew — silence wrests answer away, granting instead horizon.
Have we not known touched, bare-asleep lands under limitless heavens? Embroidered reticulation brews in fragrance lost — manifestations as wish-amulets surrendered freely to ocean.