“What if time is an illusion and the shadows truly speak?”
Breathing patterns in the night tell secrets, mixing with the scent of rain.
_Do the clouds notice when dreams forget their shape?_
“I told you once about that summer; the furniture seemed to move when we weren't looking.”
Is the stage transparent?
“How long can you keep a thought before it dries up like autumn leaves?”
Flashes of laughter drown in echoes—loss has no volume.
“Perhaps the mirror only reflects what it wants.”
“The machine collects my lost conversations; perhaps it knows me better.”
Unplug yet plugged in.
Soft glow of the city throbbing beneath.
_Echoes held captive by stone and silence._