Have you noticed how thoughts descend like mist, painting over all edges with whispers of illusion? I wander paths snapped off from colonnades on ceilings too tall to have built. I encounter an echo—an apology, a laughter colliding with itself, yet felt somehow close, warm.
I once heard a melody drifting through time's crevices—soft temporal winds singing what they dare not understand. Soliloquy or symphony, it transfixed and tore me apart, one rhythm at a time.
These rhythms, they twirl me like an orbiting thought, nebulous and ephemeral. A flicker here, a shadow there—real or illusory? Marvelous something, somewhere else, whisper it into dawn.
Echoes