Speak softly, the words cradle themselves among unkempt thoughts, tangled whispers in morning light. There it is again, that sweet illusion, a voice so familiar yet so untethered from the present moment. I sit here, the remnants of voices past brush against my consciousness like wind scattering leaves.
I remember a time when clouds spoke to the sea, their syllables a cadence of distant thunder. Cloudsongs they called it, a symphony that danced atop water. Was I there, or only imagining the echoes of their union?
"We have yet to understand the whispers of the stars,"
she said, tilting her head like a raven peering into secrets held by the night.
Every tick of the clock echoes the timelessness of this place. Time is an illusion here, isn't it? Repeating, reshaping itself like water flowing, but constrained only by the banks of perception. Voices dissolve into echoes, repeat their refrain, and then dissolve again.