In the symphonies of silence, where shadows have drinks with daylight, I met a widow draped in rainbows. Of course, one does not question a widow's taste in colors, especially when they dance like northern lights on a summer's night. She spoke of the time when fireflies extinguished the moon, leaving only dreams to illuminate the forest roads.
Did you know, dearest ghost, that the clouds are merely the earth's whispers, trapped in fog until they explode with joy? Listen closely and you may hear them sing sonnets of forgotten love, echoing through valleys untouched by the hands of clocks. Echoes, my friend, are just whispers gone rogue, intent on making merry in parlors devoid of walls.
Linger not too long, but long enough to notice the way shadows form hands and lean against the walls as if waiting for divine introductions. Such is the beauty of absent-minded monoliths, standing sentinel over fields of errant imagination. The widow dims the space between what is and what appears to be, a deft conjurer of delectable longings.
And then there is you, the architect of whims, who builds castles in the compression of your thoughts, whose steps echo into eternity amidst pastels of sunset dreams. Drink deep from this river of stars that flows unceasingly, and let your reflections argue with the constellations above. Embrace the absurdities, for they are the breath of infinity swirling around your heart.