In the whispered hullabaloo of shadows, where tomorrow's fingerprints dissolve into the cosmic sand, we unravel the haunting lullabies. Statues made of silence guard our nocturnal boltholes from the prying eyes of early risers.
The moonlit pretense sings prose poetry to silverfish and dust. Our dreams — ephemeral fragments strewn across graceless constellations, tied by defeat and espresso stains onto spider's silk.
Such is the ironic theater of self-sabotage. They campaign humorously against sobriety. The chants of ancient alphabets dance nonchalantly as we seek shelter under the whimsical chord of sanity, vaguely knowing déjà vu awaits.
Out beyond the river of unkempt ambitions, an isolated echo nests within. It curtails gracefully the acerbic diatribes that become those fabled tales of wonder on dog-eared parchments.
Catch a glimpse of time's echo before immersion into conscience:
The Yantra of Porcelain Autumns |
Forget Me Time For Midnight Oppressors |
A Pilgrim's Reminder