In a forgotten library, a whisper of silk caresses the spine of an unopened book, revealing not pages but echoes of what could have been. The sunlight streams through shattered panes, illuminating dust motes that dance like phantoms in love with their solitude^1.
To love is to chase shadows, to grasp only what seems tangible before fading into the memory of a whispering breeze. Perchance, the echo of a voice long silenced resonates in the heart of stone^2.
Footnotes^1 are written in the margins of existence, their ink never dry because they reflect thoughts not yet set free. Listen, and the vibrations of ancient words might just stir the air around you, creating a sonnet of sighs and glances not caught^3.