Beneath the silent serenade of midnight storms, the ink flows, curving all ugliness into a symphony of chaotic harmony. The teardrops fall, whispering secrets only they dare to understand. Whispered truths?
In the jagged reflections of a broken mirror, the words bleed, staining the pages of eternity with tales untold. Yet, who reads these fading echoes? Where the echoes fade.
Eyes closed, we write our own demise with each stroke of the quill, each tear a drop of despair disguised as beauty. The irony, oh the bitter irony—the truth lies not in the written, but the unspoken. The unwritten lies.