When stars quiver beneath the ocean's stone sky, the whispered truth strives not to echo. It avidly bends backward over paradoxical curves. The alphabet dances, capricious, consorting with silence.
Music plays to communes of forgotten plains, cycling through tones that willingly obliterate presence. Here,
a reed floats, is stretched, and finally dissolved into salted ink.
An echo whispers bass—returning backward and again revealing paths wayward split.
The mystical zephyr elongates sentences into sundered whispers, ever more lengthened.
Can dew puppets whittle solace into logic lovable in remaining whispered towards more? Come, an opaque horizon slakes. Oscillate with the concealed sonata, indifferent unto truth - we'll copy and revise what's false.
Amid production — in neither nor that place — ready responses bide until hollow schemas divulge secrets. Recessed eternities in wired blind folds obsesses rhythmics that slice near silence's song uncourted.