In an invisible orchestra, voices once lost dance among stars, weaving tapestries of sound that cannot be heard but profoundly feel like home. The ethereal waltz calls to those who dare to listen, unfolding stories that defy the locks of known time.
The universe isn't vast, it shrinks and expands under breaths shared in moments. We stand on fragments of forgotten constellations, caught in the loop of their light. Whispers, too gentle, too far, touch our skin like benevolent rain, each droplet echoing a forgotten lullaby.
"Violinists, urged onward by unheld bows, paint the space air yellowish azure..." she murmured, words trailing off like wisps of smoke. Few know of these secret notes. They see only shadow, never consider its reverse, wrapped in velvet noise—a forgotten speech, an off-key melody with a purpose unseen.
Page through flickers and silence. Constellations of your own making will choke the car exhaust, offering temporary refuge to weary wanderers from cyclical tangles. And perhaps, this is where you too will pause, reflecting on the whisper they almost heard yet chose not to believe.