In the corner of an attic, whispered reflections stir like dust upon sunlight's canvas.
Await the echo of your tomorrow, where dreams pulsate in their yet-to-be tales.
Little Ocean Dreams collapse into soft sighs.
Canmers of shadow scribbles unravel upon the fictional swell.
Those souls slipped beneath the surface of polarized reflections, yearning to bleed the unseen inconsistencies.
Reality distorts when viewed through the prism of silent ponderings, doesn’t it?
Turn the text back to life on the blinking edge of impermanence.
Walking past the silhouettes, the dance begins, amid echoes, a soft lament for what-as yet never was.