Time flutters like moth wings against the lantern’s breath, where each second spills into the canvas of dusk. These echoes, released into the air, spiral upwards, fading with the night.
To hold a moment is to grasp lace threads spun by memories—each strand frays and stretches, unable to bear the weight of where it once belonged.
A whisper: do you feel the air hum with stories untold? Each an unopened letter nestled in twilight’s embrace.
Yet here we are, poised at the edge of finality, suspended between choices unseen and the possibilities of nevermore.
Return to the motions; they welcome us. Click a path below: