In the flicker of antiquity's gentle flame, hast thou considered the echo of silent screams? Where gestures become speeches, masked souls narrate: I am but a prisoner of my wander, yet free within these tenebrous frames.
The titles read like constellations above waking dreams. A tale ensconced in magnetic tapes; Wave after wave, thought loops cast in monochrome — a silent sonata of the masked marionette.
Questions unfurl in the dim candlelight of recollection: Was their touch real or an illusion of illusions? The unfelt scream, resonating amidst specters draped in sepia, answers not. The audience sighs, children of ether.
Through archaic shutter ores, the lens sees: Anxious whispers of aerated pasts blending with corporeal presence, Shadows of chiaroscuro embrace whispered longings].
And thus, the picture fades, like dusk tracing The contour of forgotten longing; ephemeral, sublime.