Whispering through the canyons of mental mazes, a soft voice hums revelations untold, forgotten by time yet eternal in their loops.
There is a place where clocks dissolve into rivers, and minutes paddle upstream against the current of the now, where every passing moment tastes like the ink of yesterday's untold story.
Have you ever noticed how words linger, like perfume trails left behind by memories? They cling to the brain like starlight in a new dawn—vaguely familiar, oddly comforting.
In the quiet crevices of the soul, where light seldom dances, there lie echoes of laughter and dreams half-formed, like morning dew on the edge of night, waiting for the sun to sing.
Consider the echo as a whisper's twin—bound to mimic, yet forever separate, a paradox in the sound that yearns to be whole.