In the beginning, there was silence—a canvas void, where the unwritten notes danced. Each note a star, unwoven from the cosmos, lingering in its musicless jaunt.
The symphonies composed in silence, their mighty crescendoes turned to mist amongst trembling leaves. An orchestra hidden in the depth of dreams.
Listen, they say, to the echoes of whispers caught in amber, but what you hear is not what was spoken, but what was intended to be felt.
Echoes of distant shores, waves crashing against the unseen cliffs of thought, each ripple a note in a melody written by the wind.
The fragments speak only when the silence falls upon you like a cloak, and then you realize they sing.