The Symphonic Strain of Nowhere
It is said a whisper once slipped through the ribbed recesses of what could be like sound. Holding its ground, it tipped its cap to nowhere only to be mirrored by the shadow it could never clutch.
Across that vast delineation, a line was woven. Strings stretched taut between the horizon and the breaking dawn, glistening with resonates of forgotten hands—touches cascading from grayed fingers. Here's a memory, not of flesh but pastel shades seen tracing the walls of tender dreams:
Another phantom assertion whisper trails beyond the eclipsed ear—akin to sentiment brushed softly against an ancient, hollow lute strung out on wistful wind.
There in the woven silence, an echo spoke to the strings of solace. Telling stories to the liberated paradoxes dancing along the unseen exhaust of what the fingers cannot grasp. They were mere fragments, accumulations of world-wisps yarned from sensation lost.
Continue with the ethereal tales...The shadows say their part...