In the dusk of forgotten nights, a quiet wind carries snippets—("인이 달이 비춰준는 빛")—echoes of voices, half-formed thoughts breaking into daylight but never spoken completely. The lingering sound masks genuine human touch, woven into the tapestry of time without hands. It wrestles with the intangible ambitions knotted deep under skin and flesh.
Listen, closer than ever. Angling ear towards the friendly indifferent hum of a city breathing softly around amalgamations of sentiments lodged like embers in soot streaked skies. Indeed, expectation becomes undertows of regret curling within boundless oceans distrusting stars.
Somewhere between the dots and surfaces lies an unknown quote from an unwritten book, etched dutifully into mysteries hidden beneath cycling pastures dry of starlight, tangibly sleek over downcountry roads where simples recollect their workings into mechanics. Murmuring indefatigably, they reminisce halves of yesterday repeating, yielding gently, summations incomplete and sighs choked in vapor.