In the grand tapestry of life, woven by the hands unseen, the whispers of the mundane pattern the extraordinary.
Do you hear what is not spoken? The shadows speak volumes in silence.
"I have nothing to hide," she whispered, as secrets pirouetted around her like ethereal dancers in the moonlight.
Patterns of whispers,
Ethereal and ironic,
Even the walls lean in,
Eavesdropping on humanity's laughable tragedy.
Want a peek into the future? Buy a pair of void glasses—see through nothing!
Sometimes, the whispers grow loud enough to drown out the noise of your own thoughts. How ironic.
Look closer, or perhaps further away—truth dances just out of reach.