In a theater with no floors, statues of incense rise.

Puzzles upon the ceiling whisper, "Join us, join us," but never finish their sentences.

Watercolors bleed across the curtain—fading laughter caught mid-flight.

Floating beneath lunar echoes, shadows cradle unspoken words.

An empty vase, it hums for no one, its melody a hollow ache.

Meanwhile, beneath an aurora of silent lands, a compass spins—unmagnetized.

Threads of the unsutured sky dangle over horizons.

The earth spins on its shadow, marred by deeds forgotten in sunlit blindness.

What remains of you, of I? Dust scattered upon spectral winds.